When it comes to diamonds—like their men—some women prefer them rough

Thanks to her grandfather’s complicated will, Miss Adela Ruffington, along with her mother and sisters, is about to lose her home and income to a distant cousin, the closest male heir to the Millingford title. For Adela, nothing could be more insulting—being denied her rightful inheritance for a randy scoundrel like Wilson, the very man who broke her heart following a lusty youthful dalliance years ago.

Still smarting from the betrayal of his latest paramour, Wilson Ruffington never anticipates the intense desire Adela again stirs within him. Despite his wicked tongue and her haughty pride, their long-ago passion instantly reignites at a summer house party, the experience they’ve gained as adults only adding fuel to the flames.

Wilson and Adela are insatiable, but civility outside of the bedroom proves impossible. Determined to keep Adela in his bed, Wilson devises a ruse—a marriage of convenience that will provide her family with a generous settlement, as well as prevent scandalous whispers. Their plan works perfectly until family rivalries and intrigue threaten to destroy their arrangement…and the unspoken love blooming beneath it.

Praise for

Portia Da Costa

A Sunday Times Bestselling Author

2012 RITA® Award Nominee for In the Flesh

“Da Costa pens a highly titillating, tantalizing tale.…

Not for the faint of heart, but Susan Johnson, Bertrice Small

and Brenda Joyce fans will savor the delicious fantasies within.”

—RT Book Reviews

“It’s been so brilliantly written that you forget that you’re [not in]

Victorian England.… Excellent—can’t wait to read the next installment.”

—Erotica For All (U.K.)

“Portia Da Costa has an incredible talent for writing erotic romance.

She is particularly adept at creating dominant heroes

who push their lovers’ limits hard, but fall in love so sweetly.

She fills the pages with an unparalleled level of eroticism that singes.”

—Romance Novel News

“Forget about the rest and read the very best: Portia Da Costa.”

—Sensual Reads

Diamonds in the Rough

Portia Da Costa

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedicated to Alice, a dear little feline friend.

Contents

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1

A Flash of Black

Rayworth Court,

Summer 1891

Wilson Ruffington was bored, bored, bored.

I shouldn’t have come here. I knew it would be tedious. These affairs always are.

He looked this way and that, up and down the landing. Rayworth Court was an ugly rambling pile, badly designed in the first place and made worse by haphazard additions. Even he was having trouble finding his way around, when usually he could create a floor plan of any building in his mind, hypothesizing from only a limited amount of data.

Frowning at a particularly hideous ancestral portrait, Wilson sighed. He’d come to this country house party for a change of scene, to shake off his ennui, but it wasn’t working. He’d never been a great one for the social scene at the best of times, but in the past two months or so, since the split from Coraline, he’d barely even left his house at all. With his mistress gone, what was the point? Work, study, writing, building things and tinkering with things, devising more things to build and tinker with, all this had occupied him. Technical commissions and consultations and his intense intellectual schedule had neatly allowed him to avoid the fact that the first woman in seven years that he’d actually considered proposing to had deserted him. Jiggered off with barely a “by your leave” in order to marry a seventy-five-year-old Italian duke.

“Bitch!”

He spat out the word, but without any real fire. Did he even care anymore? It was only his trivial male ego that was affected by her departure. The greater part of him, the compartment of Wilson Ruffington that contained his intellect, simply trundled on as normal. His sexual appetite was a bit put out by her absence, and he certainly missed a regular diet of plentiful, vigorous and inventive fucking and other carnal activities. That lack, and his wounded pride, were the only things really getting his spirits down.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. To feel insulted and frustrated, and let it bother him.

I’ll go home, back to my workroom and my workshop. The people here don’t interest me at all, and the women are ninnies.

Feeling more cheerful already, Wilson whipped his notebook out of the pocket of his dressing gown and scribbled down a quick list of readily available chemicals and other ingredients. During a brief foray into the kitchen gardens at the back of the house he’d noted an interesting form of blight on some of the vegetable varieties. If he gave this formulation to the earl’s head gardener, instructing the man to apply it as a soil dressing, it would at least go some way toward recompensing Lord Rayworth for his being such an abysmal guest.

Wilson closed his eyes and called up his imaginary floor plan, which worked this time. Left it was, then left again, and he’d find himself at the main staircase. Then up one floor and to his left again, and finally, the blessed sanctuary of his room. Perhaps he’d order up some tea, and some of that delicious plum cake he’d purloined from the kitchen when he’d passed through on his way in from the garden. He would instruct his man Teale to make arrangements for his departure, and while he waited, he’d lie in bed and think about a thorny problem with the submarine plans that was taxing him. The project was a government secret, so he’d brought no papers along, but he could do the calculations in his head. There had to be a way to make those damned flanges marry up correctly in such a confined space.

And if the submarine wouldn’t behave, he might toss himself off instead, as a diversion.

Smiling, he opened his eyes again and turned to the left.

Only to swivel back instantly to his right.

What was that? A flash of black, barely glimpsed in the periphery of his vision, then gone again. He’d got the impression of a woman. A female in an inky-black gown, dashing purposefully along the landing at right angles to where he was standing. It’d been only a split second, but there was something...something familiar, and it grabbed at him. A fleeting recollection so astonishing that it made his heart leap.

No, surely not? Not her...

In stealth, he padded forward, sweeping back the panels of his open dressing gown, lest he create a flash of blue silk paisley that would attract her attention.

But if it wasn’t who he imagined it might be, who was she, this swift and graceful figure, this dark, beguiling wraith, moving at speed? He’d seen no female guests wearing black thus far. It was all showy summer gowns, lace and muslin confections of the sort in which Coraline looked so fine. Unless a person was in mourning, black was an illogical choice for swanning around playing croquet, watching impromptu cricket games and admiring the rose garden, because it didn’t reflect back the sun, and it made one hot. Even the dowager Lady Rayworth, she of the grim brow who’d frowned at his own sartorial choices, had been wearing light gray in response to the heat. All the fussing young belles were flouncing around in white or flower-sprigged pastels.

Wilson faltered. From somewhere in his memory storehouse, a compartment flipped open and the image of a white muslin frock rose up like a phantasmagoria, taking his breath away. White muslin against green willow. To his astonishment, his somnolent cock stiffened in his linen, firming so hard and so fast it made him grunt in pain.

Great God Almighty! Now there’s a turnup.

At the corner’s apex, Wilson flattened himself against the paneling and peered around the edge. He’d always enjoyed a spot of subterfuge, and hopefully, all this creeping around like an agent of secrecy might take his mind off his raging erection.

The woman in the black gown was standing with her back to him, trying the handle on a heavy, polished oak door. The hardware defied her, and as she twisted it this way and that, with prodigious force for one so slender, another memory escaped Wilson’s capacious storehouse.

It must be you. Nobody else would attack like that. No lady, at least.

The inner photograph displayed another locked door, in another great country house, with another, or perhaps the very same, determined woman grappling to gain entrance. Wilson didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. Both were appropriate.

What the hell are you doing here?

He’d seen no guest list, and made no inquiries. It’d been potluck. So there was nothing to say she couldn’t be here. Especially if her matchmaking mother had anything to do with anything.

Were parent and daughter both up to habits of old? The parent attempting to marry off the offspring; the child attempting to breach locked doors and gain access to dubious treasures. Plus ça change...

Or déjà vu, which I don’t believe in.

Calculating the precise distance he could advance without being seen, Wilson leaned a little farther around the corner, and his heart skipped when he saw something he hadn’t noticed before.

The mystery woman had been carrying a portfolio with her, what looked like a leather-bound sketchbook tied with ribbons. It was now lying on the carpet runner at her feet. She must have dropped it in order to apply two hands to the door handle.

Definitely you. Who else could it be?

There were too many similarities now for it not to be her, statistically. That slender female form was unmistakable, her shape indelibly branded into his memory. Likewise her glossy nut-brown hair, so thick and willful that it appeared ever in danger of escaping its coiffure. Even the black dress was right. Yes, she might well still be wearing mourning.

Do I want to see you?

Wilson braced himself. The last time he’d faced up to this determined cuss of a creature alone, just the two of them, it hadn’t been a pleasant experience. In fact, it’d been a disaster, and peculiarly disturbing. The juxtaposition of hurling insults at each other and him developing a raging erection had unnerved him. And he didn’t easily become unnerved. In fact, she was the only one in seven years who could make it so. Not even Coraline had produced quite the same effect.

Wilson debated turning away. There was no logic in courting unpleasantness. No advantage for either of them.

Oh, don’t be a whining coward, man! You’re not scared of her, are you? Ninny.

So he stayed where he was, watching, waiting for the right moment, waiting to see if she still had the nefarious skill he’d taught her once, that day long ago, when she’d wanted to get into a forbidden library and explore its exotic treasures.

Déjà vu indeed. The Earl of Rayworth was reputed to have a fine and very extensive collection of erotic books and scandalous works of art stashed away somewhere here at the court, a secret library of the proscribed and the profane. Wilson had a keen interest in all forms of esoterica, too, and the earl’s hoard was said to include choice items from all over Europe and Asia, rich in words and pictures both divine and disgusting.

“Stupid, dratted, wretched, provoking thing!”

Wilson edged forward again, suddenly enjoying the sight of his quarry kicking out at the oak with a slender foot clad in a black boot of glace kid. The thump of footwear against door and her sudden yelp of pain sent his memory spinning back again, retrieving hot, wild cries that weren’t stubborn or impatient in the slightest, but full of passion and joyous, sensual satisfaction.

About to wade into the fray, Wilson froze when a slender white hand reached up and prized first one substantial pin from her thickly coiled hair, then another. Crouching, her full skirt a black pool around her, the mysterious yet infinitely familiar woman applied her makeshift picklocks to the source of her frustration.

If any last specks of doubt had lingered, they dissolved now. This was the final conclusive echo of the past.

Cracking the secret library’s lock was precisely what he’d have done himself, and he always carried a set of picklocks and other miniature tools in his pockets. There were very often private cases in the many libraries he consulted, and he was too impatient to spend time parlaying with librarians who were overprotective of their scientific and literary treasures.

The graceful burglar beyond wasn’t quite as accomplished at breaking into strongholds as he was, but he was the one who’d shown her how to do it, in that different mansion, and it seemed she hadn’t lost the knack. After a few moments an audible click announced her success, and she straightened, her spine a shallow, exquisite arc as she reached up and jammed the pins back into her abundant hair, dislodging a few shiny, nut-brown strands in the process. The wayward tresses tumbled down against her neck, and absentmindedly she pushed at them. Wilson’s hand flexed in a physical memory—of running his fingers through that lush, silky fall as she clung to him, gasping.

Without a backward look, the slim felon swooped down again to snatch up her leather binder, then opened the door and passed swiftly into the room beyond, her skirts gliding and floating as she swirled them out of the way to shut the door behind her.

Wilson sped forward, experiencing a mix of curiosity, irrational happiness and an uncharacteristic apprehension as he went. Would they argue like cat and dog again? Would it be the more recent bones of contention they scrapped over...or the older ones?

What’s wrong with you, man? Surely you can meet her with equanimity? You’ve got the upper hand now.

How cold that sounded. He shook his head, focusing his attention on the moment rather than the larger picture of their tortuous familial complications.

With his fingers on the doorknob, he cocked his head, listening. What was she doing in there? Was she already perusing lewd Oriental etchings and obscene writings? He imagined her pale, narrow face flushing pink with the sly tickle of arousal.

Arousal? Good God, his own state was far more than a sly tickle now. He was up so hard that he was in agony, and if his hand could remember the touch of her, his damned cock had perfect recall. The throb in his rigid flesh was a direct conduit between past and present.

Stilling himself, Wilson set his ear against the thick door, but heard nothing. The only way to discover what she was up to was to throw open the door and surprise her. And quickly, because lurking here like a randy adolescent only laid him open to the danger of discovery. Not that he cared two pins for his reputation, but his presence would draw attention to hers, and she had enough problems already.

But even as Wilson prepared to make his move, a faint sound did issue through the thick door, and it wasn’t the languorous female sighs for which his libido had been hoping.

What the devil is it?

A humming whir and an odd repetitive clacking noise were quickly followed by a delicious feminine chuckle.

Wilson turned the handle and pushed open the door to find his lady in black standing in front of a broad, leather-topped desk. On it stood what appeared to be a rather substantial but badly balanced praxinoscope, if he wasn’t mistaken, and as she whipped around, she snatched her hand back and the thing slowed to a halt.

“Oh! It’s you! I might have known.”

2

Cousin Dearest

The familiar low, well-modulated voice expressed only mild surprise, as if Adela had been expecting him.

Wilson scowled, even though he’d not meant to. An expression of displeasure at this stage only gave her the advantage. But then, she had that already. She’d probably known he was here somewhere. That dratted mother of hers had probably dragged her here precisely for that reason.

“Indeed it is me, cousin dearest. And I assume you’ve been expecting me? I’ll wager your mother, at least, knows I’m here.”

A pair of large, fine brown eyes, almost exactly the rich walnut hue of her sliding, disarranged hair, glared back at him, stormy with suspicion. She didn’t like their family situation any better than he. In fact, she had far more reason not to.

Adela didn’t like him, either, and in his heart of hearts, he didn’t blame her. He’d crushed her tender feelings underfoot on more than one occasion now. He had a God-given talent for saying the first stupid and often callous-sounding thing that came into his head, much to his self-disgust. Even if he didn’t always mean it. Well, even if he didn’t completely mean it.

“Indeed she does, cousin Wilson, indeed she does.” Adela’s emphasis on the word was a facetious rebuttal of any kind of endearment. They barely were cousins at all, when it came to it, their genealogy far more of a division than a bond. “Since Father died, one of her dearest wishes and perennial goals in life is to accidentally hurl the two of us together.” Adela straightened her spine, almost visibly squaring her firm but narrow shoulders, as if ready to gird on a heavy suit of armor. “But what with our mourning, and your famously clever knack of ignoring and/or regretting our very existence, opportunities for collision have been like hen’s teeth. When the countess took pity on us and invited us here, Mama nearly had an apoplexy, she was so thrilled to see you on the guest list.”

“And what did you have?” Irrational anger made his tongue sharp. Her clear lack of pleasure in seeing him again was no surprise, but it still made him want to break something. At least she could have feigned a smile for form’s sake.

And with a sweet, lush mouth like hers, even the faintest smile was a breathtaking phenomenon.

Dark eyes narrowed. “I experienced a distinct desire not to crash into you, yet now, despite my best efforts, here we are.”

“You could have declined Rayworth’s invitation.” It would have been easy enough to claim some unspecified female malady.

Her stare was a basilisk’s venomous dismissal, disdaining him, discarding him utterly. Did she feel no warmth at all? If not affection, then not even the slightest twinge of the baser, more animal emotions? “One can’t cut off one’s nose to spite one’s face. I had hoped that I could avoid you as much as possible, while still accepting. It would have broken Mama’s heart to deny her at least a shred of optimism. She’d rather live on hope than face the truth.”

Adela was steely, but for a few fractions of a second, the way she bit her full, pink lower lip betrayed her. Likewise her narrow white hand twisting a fold of her gown. The contrast between the creamy pallor of her skin and the dull sheen of the black fabric was intoxicating. Unable to stop himself, Wilson imagined her in the kind of black satin boudoir garments that Coraline had so favored, and his wayward cock kicked again, hard, in his trousers.

Anger kicked, too, but not at his cousin. He actually felt enraged at the memory of Coraline for distracting him, as if she’d stepped into the room and interrupted this sparring match. Yet her presence seemed strangely indistinct.... He should have felt regret over his former mistress, but her image was blurred, like an inexpertly developed photograph.

The vision of his second cousin twice removed, however, was sharp as a razor. And despite the fact that the real woman was still scowling at him, the mental image of Adela Felicia Ruffington clad in a black corset trimmed with red lace and ribbons was delectable, and made him want to touch himself. And her.

Yes, you’d look very handsome in a few scraps of expensive frou-frou, Della. Very handsome indeed.

“You should be out in society, Della. Just because your mother’s prepared to sacrifice you to me in order to save her fortunes and those of your butterfly sisters, that shouldn’t stop you from having a little fun.”

Adela drew in a slow deep breath, clearly sifting through a selection of sarcastic words with which to lash him. The action made her bosom lift, pushing her delicate curves against the confines of her hidden corset. Wilson’s private fantasy of ribbons and black satin grew yet more agonizing in the area of his loins.

Adela was a slim woman, but she had a shape. A beautiful wood nymph’s shape, and just once, for one blessed idyllic afternoon, he’d had his eager hands on it.

“Well, I thank you for your sage opinions on the subject of my welfare, Wilson.” She inclined her head like some wily bird, assessing him. And not with favor. Wilson could see columns and tallies, and far too many negative ticks stacked up against him. Suddenly his own affected eccentricity, which usually secretly amused him, wasn’t quite as satisfying anymore. He clenched his fists in the folds of his dressing gown, to stop his fingers from raking through his unruly hair in an effort to tidy it. He wished he’d made an effort to conform, and that he could change his lurid waistcoat for something more elegant and sober, and his silk dressing gown for a well-cut frock coat. His maverick attire did not find favor with his cousin. Her perfectly arched eyebrows spoke volumes.

“But for my part,” she went on, her exquisite hauteur and proud deportment making her appear far more entitled to a deluxe life and aristocratic status than he’d ever be, “it’s not the end of the world if the Ruffington assets go to you on the Old Curmudgeon’s death. Grandfather has his reasons, and we’ll make the best of the hand we’ve been dealt. Mama and the girls and I will manage, even if we have to take in washing. And if the worse did come to the worst, I can’t believe that even you would throw us out on the street. Our parasitical status notwithstanding.”

Will I never be allowed to forget that?

Certain ill-thought remarks, made on the occasion of their last meeting, were impossible to expunge. Adela still hated him for them, and he couldn’t blame her. He had been nasty. With much on his mind at the time, a moment’s lapse of concentration had led him to say vile things about Mrs. Ruffington, and all subsequent halfhearted attempts to retract had only made things worse.

But being instructed—in a letter from her mother—that he really ought to marry Adela, because the assets and riches of her grandfather, Augustus Ruffington, Lord Millingford, were rightfully hers, had made him see red. In cooler moments, he knew that the Old Curmudgeon was being callous and cruel to his daughter-in-law and granddaughters. But receiving this commandment while Coraline was being particularly capricious, and with memories of his own mother’s emotional manipulations still keen, Wilson had lashed out at Adela when they’d encountered each other at the New Gallery not long after.

No, calling her mother “a presumptuous, overbearing parasite with ridiculous notions of entitlement” had not endeared him to Adela, making an already prickly relationship into a veritable porcupine of resentment and enmity.

Still, he opened his mouth, not knowing how, but hoping to make things better. “But that’s not quite what I meant, and you must admit I didn’t say it to her face. I—”

His cousin raised a hand and silenced him before he could get another word out.

My God, she’s impressive. Wilson’s cock lurched again, the weight of desire almost making him double over.

“No, you fobbed her off with some pretentious taradiddle of a reply. What was it...something about being ‘married to your work’?” Adela paused, her eyes narrowing, but still brilliant. “When we all know that your objection is to me, and that you were already involved in a romantic liaison elsewhere. How is the beauteous Coraline, by the way?”

For a hundredth of a second, Wilson reeled. Oh, how she wielded the knife. “Still beauteous, as far as I know,” he said, affecting a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “And please don’t tell me you don’t know she’s split from me. I’m sure the jungle drums of society have thundered out all the juicy details.”

“Ah, yes, her duke. How does it feel to be thrown over for a seventy-five-year-old in a bath chair?”

Wilson wasn’t a violent man. In fact, strange as it seemed, considering his work for the War Office, he was a pacifist. But right now he wanted to box his cousin’s ears.

“How does it feel to be out for upward of four seasons and not snare a husband?”

Adela remained impressive. Even more so now. Yet there was a flash of pain in her eyes, and he half expected her to demand, “Whose fault is that?”

And he half expected something else, too. The little gesture that more repercussions of his incautious tongue had initiated, the involuntary, yet graceful raising of her hand to her face, to shadow the slightly crooked bridge of her nose.

But she yielded to neither. She didn’t even say, “Touché.”

“I don’t think I care to discuss these matters any further, Wilson. I came here to enjoy a pleasant weekend in the country, and I’d be grateful if you’d kindly leave me alone now to do just that.”

No!

Irrationally, no, no, no! He couldn’t leave. Not with fire in Adela’s eyes and her blood up. Despite what she said and what he knew she felt, he’d never lusted for her harder than he did right now.

“Ah, but this is my pleasant weekend, too, Della. Can’t you enjoy your explorations while I’m here? This room interests me. And it must interest you, too, or you wouldn’t have employed the skills I taught you in order to gain entrance.”

He wasn’t lying when he said the room interested him. Under normal circumstances, he’d have been nose deep in one of the many, many choice volumes by now. But it was Adela he wanted to explore. After weeks of feeling sorry for himself, his cousin’s delicate flower scent and her determination to spar fired him up, too. Good Lord, he even felt cheerful. His libido surged when she nibbled her soft lower lip again, as if the sound of her pet name, and his discovery of her breaking and entering rendered her vulnerable.

Yet her head was up and her voice was smooth. “I’ll leave you to your studies and return later. You can be the one to explain how you gained entry without a key.” Abandoning the forgotten praxinoscope, she swept past him, reaching for her leather binder where it lay on the desk.

With barely a conscious thought, Wilson grabbed for her shoulder as she moved by, his every instinct commanding that she stay. They hadn’t seen each other in six months or so...and even then, when they’d flayed each other with insults, his blood had sung. More than that, it had been seven years since their fateful, carnal afternoon together. But he realized now he’d never forgotten a single second of it. While diverted by others, his memories of Adela had been haphazardly contained in one of his mental boxes, where he stored thoughts and notions for later review, or otherwise. But even during his bouts of exotic and protracted lovemaking with Coraline that box had still been there, radiant with golden, stolen moments once spent by a river with his distant cousin, its perturbations inchoate, but nagging.

Wilson held his breath. She had to stay, but she was struggling, shaking her arm wildly and jerking away from his grip. She even slapped him—hard—around the back and neck with her blessed leather portfolio.

You always were deliciously physical, cousin.

“Let me go, you insufferable oaf. Don’t paw me.” It was a low, controlled threat, not the squeal of a vexed miss. Resentment dripped from it. “You made it perfectly plain last time we conversed what you think of me, Wilson, and my family. Useless, you said, just sitting around waiting to be supported by a man or an inherited fortune, and myself, personally, neither accomplished nor beautiful enough to be worthy of either. Just as much a parasite as my mother.”

“I didn’t say that!”

Liar. Why was he denying his own bad behavior? He’d certainly implied she was no better than her mother, and just now, he’d attacked her with cutting words again. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t even blame Coraline this afternoon, because his former mistress was so faint to him now he could barely picture her.

What would it be like to go back and expunge his thoughtlessness? To be a different man? A man free to take Adela’s graceful body in his arms and gently comfort her. To kiss her and touch her... Maybe there was even some convenient river or brook nearby? A soft mossy bank where they could lie down and—

A sharp elbow gouging his ribs dissolved his wayward memories and urges. His grip loosened, and Adela raced for the door, clutching her leather folder while Wilson rubbed quickly at his rib cage, astonished at how viciously she’d jabbed him.

But he didn’t box and run and practice a little-known Oriental fighting art for nothing. He had reflexes like a panther, and he shot across the room after his cousin, catching her at the door. He grabbed her again in a light hold that wouldn’t hurt, but wouldn’t yield, either. Why didn’t he have the words to make her stay, without resorting to manhandling?

“Don’t go, Della. I know our last meeting was somewhat disastrous, and I shouldn’t have been so harsh....” He watched her face. Was she mellowing? “But let’s put that behind us, shall we? And start again... Perhaps we can investigate this ingenious toy of yours?” He nodded at the praxinoscope. “And then perhaps select a few exciting volumes from this hoard together? It seems a shame not to, now we’re here.”

She was relenting. He was sure of it. Indecipherable emotions flickered in her gleaming eyes.

Adela’s looks didn’t conform to fashionable standards of beauty, and he was only too aware that, though she wouldn’t admit it, certain imperfections troubled her. The slight crook in her nose troubled him, too, though not because it was unattractive. To him, it was piquant, almost provocative. It was only the little kink’s provenance that irked his soul.

His fault. He couldn’t be blamed for her chicken pox scars, though, even if Adela would probably have liked to pin them on him, too. The little pink marks were like a dusting of stars scattered across the apples of her cheeks that only accentuated the otherwise porcelain perfection of her skin.

But what female ever saw her flaws as assets? Adela was intelligent and pragmatic, but even the most sensible woman had vanity.

Her next words only confirmed that. “Well, if you’d stop gaping at my bent nose and my pockmarks, I might consider staying. But I’m not one of your scientific studies, you know.”

“I’m not staring.” More lies. He was staring. “It’s just that it’s, um, very pleasant to see you.”

Good Lord, I sound like a gauche youth faced with his first woman.

His heart turned over and his hand went limp, freeing her again. Adela was his first woman, and he her first man. And whatever difficulties and conflict arose, that simple truth would forever be a bond between them.

“Well, it looks like staring to me.” But Adela was the one staring now. She was gaping at him as if he’d gone stark mad. “And I don’t care for it. I’m looking careworn and as washed out as whey at the moment.” Her mouth pursed in a little moue of displeasure. “Black is the most unflattering of colors, and even though I know Papa wouldn’t mind me abandoning it, thanks to the Old Curmudgeon and his grudges we don’t have funds for colorful gowns at the moment.” She fixed Wilson with an old-fashioned look, as if daring him to comment.

Black did suit her. Couldn’t she see that? She looked superb in the inky hue, and was just trying to make him feel guilty. Again. “Don’t be stupid, Della, you look exceptionally fine in black. It gives you a regal and very intriguing quality.” It sounded fanciful and made-up, but by George it was the truth.

“You have a strange way of trying to butter me up, Wilson. It won’t work.” She gave him a stiff look, narrow of eye, but surprisingly, she stayed where she was.

“But I’m not trying to butter you up. It’s the truth. You’re a handsome woman.” Her gleaming walnut-colored eyes widened. He saw her wanting to believe. “You’re only being willful in denying it. If you don’t believe me, I’ll prove it to you.”

Catching her again and spinning her toward him, he inclined his head and pressed his lips on hers. As hard as he could.

3

The Most Aggravating Man in the World

The touch of Wilson’s lips rocked Adela in her shoes. Seven years ago he’d done exactly this. Grabbed her and kissed her. Now it felt as if barely a second had passed between that kiss and this one, and just as before, all her resolution melted, lost in a heightened perception so intense it almost pained her.

Her cousin’s mouth was like warm velvet moving against hers, infinitely teasing and tantalizing, and she could smell his shaving lotion and his soap, the notes of each one quite separately distinct. On his lips there was a very faint flavor of something sweet and spicy, plum cake perhaps. It was on his tongue when it traced the seam of her lips.

These impressions crowded into the space of a small, surprised fragment of a second, each one of them enough to rock her heart.

I should push you away. I should push you away and run like the wind. This is all wrong and it will only lead to trouble, no matter what Mama thinks.

Yet with this rationale in her mind, Adela still wound her arms around her outrageous cousin instead of thrusting him away. He was, and always had been, the most aggravating man in the world, but still she parted her lips for him, instead of clamping them shut and grabbing him by the ears to get him off her.

Oh, how she’d yearned for Wilson once, yearned for him with all her young heart and soul. But until a moment or two ago, she’d believed the urge done and dead, crushed by circumstances and Wilson himself. Now, it was patently obvious she’d been completely wrong about that. Her feelings for him were as alive and rambunctious as ever. The taste of his mouth and tongue thrilled her just as it had all those years ago. Sliding her free hand boldly beneath his dressing gown, she clasped his strong, lean back and pressed her body close to his, metaphorically waving adieu to her wits.

Ah! I’m not the only one with feelings alive and well, then....

His cock was hard, and it pressed against the curve of her belly, just beneath her corset, as hot and ungovernable as it had been those seven years ago. In the frozen moment of time that they stood together, his eager flesh seemed to twitch, calling to hers. Even though there were layers and layers of clothing between them.

Adela rocked her hips, the response like breathing. Wilson gasped, making a gruff sound in his throat, countering her action.

What was she doing? This was absurd. Unthinkable. In the space of a few fractious exchanges, he’d unmasked her. Compelled her to reveal her secret self, just by...just by being Wilson! Trying to back away, Adela shoved hard, her hand spread against his chest to dislodge him. No more blindly clinging and cleaving like a hysterical trollop. It was madness.

“Wilson! For heaven’s sake, what are you doing? You can’t just grab me and kiss me as if you own me!” He seemed reluctant to let her go. His grip even tightened. But then he succumbed, fingers relaxing their hold on her arms. “Have some decorum. You’re not a rutting dog!” Adela cried, jumping back a step.

“Decorum, eh? I’m not the one who threw her arms around me just now.” Oh, that voice, that damned voice. It was familiar, thrilling, deep, its resonance playing across her senses like a bow across a violin. A narrow smirk curved her cousin’s beautiful mouth with its sharply defined upper lip. “All I was hoping for was a chaste and cousinly peck on the cheek. I didn’t expect to be manhandled.”

You are an insufferable beast who should be thrashed and pummeled.

“It was just shock, cousin dearest. You kissed first and it surprised me. I wasn’t quite in my right mind.” She darted back farther, still clutching her portfolio of sketches. She had to get out of here. But just looking at him made it difficult to leave.

Her distant cousin Wilson Ruffington had always been an eccentric, and even his liaison with a notoriously fashionable French adventuress didn’t appear to have tidied him up very much. In fact, he was more a wild man now. His thick, wavy black hair was longer than when she’d last seen him, curling around his ears and on his collar, tousled and yet shiny and clean.

Which summed him up, really. He was scruffy and fastidious. A puzzle in every possible respect.

Adela compressed her lips. Why, when he was so annoying and often hurtful, did he still make her want to smile? Her fingers just itched for her pencil, and in her mind she was already drawing him. Aggravating or no, he was a sight for sore eyes, tall, wiry, intriguing and stylish in a way that other men just weren’t. Flagrantly bohemian, he still affected his dressing gown during the daytime, as he’d done seven years ago at Ruffington Hall. He’d swanned about in his robe then, much to the consternation of the Old Curmudgeon—who’d called him a nancy and told him to brace up—and it seemed he’d not broken the habit. Today’s example was a blue silk paisley confection, and beneath it he wore an equally absurd waistcoat in a different pattern entirely. His trousers were thankfully quite normal, but he wore his white shirt sans neckwear or even a collar, and a little open.

He was a ragamuffin prince, almost a comic opera figure, drenched in a wayward male glamour. Beside him she was the drabbest dark crow.

And yet...and yet the way Wilson was looking at her seemed to say otherwise. His blue-gray eyes, so pale and all-seeing, monitored every detail of her appearance even as she assessed his. And they were hot. Searing, despite their icy color, their devouring heat confirming what she’d felt at his groin.

How could he want her after what he’d said six months ago? And the way he’d scrupulously avoided any chance of being alone with her for seven years? He probably wanted any woman, and Adela had simply blundered unawares into his line of sight. Society talk—which she told herself was tedious and uninteresting, yet followed avidly—said that he and the famous Coraline had parted recently, so her randy cousin was probably just missing his regular quota of carnal pleasures.

Adela narrowed her eyes back at him, imagining her head clamped in place for a formal photograph. Wilson would not make her back down and look away.

“I see you haven’t improved your habits of dress yet, cousin.” She raked her glance from his toes to his shaggy head, schooling her face to not show the lustful feelings she couldn’t suppress. Far from a lady in that respect, she must not allow him to perceive her true nature, her dangerous secrets.

“I dress for rationality and comfort, Della, and to please myself. You should leave off your corsets and try it. You’d feel so much better.... Far less prone to fits of temper.”

Ah ha! How little you know, Mr. Clever Boots.

At home, Adela had abandoned her corsets. She’d happily embraced a rational form of dress, inspired not only by Mrs. Wilde and other lady aesthetes, but also by some of her free-thinking friends at the Ladies’ Sewing Circle. She’d joined the group just over a year ago, and found it a revelation, in ways she’d never have imagined. The loose, comfortable garments and lighter underclothing affected by some of the ladies were pure bliss after the restrictions of corsetry, and even better, through them she’d been introduced to a dressmaker whose charges were exceptionally reasonable. It was a lot less pricey to run up a lightly shaped “aesthetic” gown than it was to tailor a formal, fitted costume.

Adela was trussed up now only because Mama had insisted, even if it did mean that her only “presentable” gowns were those left over from mourning her father.

“Women wear corsets, Wilson. It’s simply what we do. They’re an aid to good posture and they create an elegant silhouette.” Damn him, why did he provoke her to lie? And behave badly... Why did the way he looked at her make her suddenly long to rip the whole lot off, corsets, petticoats, drawers and all, just to make those silvery eyes pop wide? “And pray tell me what’s so rational about the juxtaposition of that waistcoat with that dressing gown? It’s sartorial chaos, an assault to the eyes and to the sensibilities of anyone with even the tiniest appreciation of good style.”

“Ouch!” Wilson clutched dramatically at the offending waistcoat, even while his eyes still seemed to pierce her clothing and lasciviously view the body underneath. “But seriously, you don’t need a corset, Della. You have immaculate posture and a perfect silhouette without one...and I should know, having seen it.”

Curse the beast! Why had she ever even hoped that he wouldn’t refer to their “incident”? Their tryst. It had changed her more radically than any other event in her life, but a thousand what-ifs made it far too painful to reflect on often. And she didn’t want to discuss it or refer to it now. Not with the one other person on earth who knew it had ever occurred. Her closest friends from the Sewing Circle, Sofia and Beatrice, were aware that there had been a boy, in her youth...but Adela had revealed only the most oblique details. She’d never spoken of what still sang in her flesh....

“Well, I’d be grateful if you’d expunge that sight from your mind, Wilson, peerless as you claim it to be. The incident during which you saw it never happened. I thought we agreed to that?” She edged toward the door once more, then faltered, shocked by Wilson’s expression. He’d winced, pain in his eyes and the taut, high lines of his cheekbones. It lasted only an instant, then disappeared again completely, eclipsed by a narrow, wolfish grin.

“I’m not sure I ever agreed to that, Della. But if you say it never happened, then it didn’t...or did it?” Slowly, lasciviously, his tongue touched the center of his lower lip.

Her heart thundering like a runaway locomotive, Adela yearned to escape. But somehow her muscles just wouldn’t work. Just the simple task of opening the door and exiting the room was a mountain to climb.

“Don’t go, Della.” His sharply angled face gentled, the look on it conciliatory if not precisely pleading. “Please stay a little while.”

It was dangerous. He was dangerous. He was a colossal hazard to her peace of mind in a dozen different ways...and yet he was as irresistible to her as he’d been those seven years ago.

And retreat was cowardice, too, something she despised.

But what was better, a wise coward or a valiant fool? Despite his blandishments, Wilson’s attention was most definitely straying perilously in the direction of her portfolio now and again, and if he saw its contents, she’d never hear the end of it for the rest of this weekend, at least. What he saw could become a weapon to wield against her almost indefinitely.

Wilson was shrewd. Brilliant, in fact. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he was probably a genius, one of the greatest minds in the empire. Yet even the simplest male thinker would probably be able to put two and two together, based on the evidence of her portfolio and her presence in this room. Her cousin was probably a hundred steps ahead of that already, portfolio as yet unseen.

Why, why, why did I bring it? I should have come only to look, not to compare, then sketched afterward in private. It’s not as if I can’t remember what I’ve seen....

But there were certain drawings reputed to be in the earl’s collection, special items of which pastiches had been requested. It didn’t do to disappoint her more discerning and extravagant customers.

Though Wilson would go to town on her having “customers” at all.

“So, will you stay...or scuttle off?” His pale eyes were narrowed again, as if he’d read everything passing through her mind. “Running away seems to be a habit of yours.”

That did it. Adela’s fingers tightened, ready to wallop him about the head with the portfolio, but in a massive effort of containment, she resisted.

“I will stay. Just for a little while. But only because I want to.”

“Capital. Now let’s inspect this toy of yours, shall we? It doesn’t seem to be working very well.” With a swift, tight, insultingly faux little smile, Wilson swept back to the desk and the praxinoscope that had amused her before his arrival, his silk dressing gown fluttering in his wake. He hadn’t forgotten her portfolio, though, that was certain, and in one portion of his devious, extemporizing mind, he was no doubt still speculating on its contents with typical Wilson relish. Adela tightened her grip, just in case.

Watching him, she almost wished she’d powdered her cheeks a little, as Mama had begged her to do. The praxinoscope’s picture strip was a risqué item, especially inflammatory in motion, and with her nemesis beside her a blush rose inevitably in Adela’s face. She braced herself for the equally inevitable ribald comment.

But for Wilson the scientist, and tinkerer with all things mechanical, a close inspection of the mechanism proved irresistible, thankfully. Reaching under the drum, he probed for a moment, then lifted it clear. Removing the picture strip, he set it aside and turned the circular container over to study it closely before shifting his attention to the spindle on which it rode.

“Hmm...most interesting. Not a bad example. But obsolete, of course. The future of moving images is photographic, utilizing perforated celluloid film.” For a moment he seemed apart from her, his mind turning over, sifting through possibilities in his grand passion for technological innovation. “There have been some exciting advances.... It’s an area I’d take a crack at myself if I had the time, but there’s a lot of trial and error involved.” He was still frowning at the spindle, but Adela imagined him picturing other devices, assessing their flaws and strengths in fractions of moments. “I saw the Le Prince exhibit, and the work of Friese-Green...but there are still difficulties. Hand-cranking the camera makes it almost impossible to produce an entirely smooth result. The same with the method of projection.... I suspect the all-conquering Edison will prevail in the end. He mostly does....”

With his lower lip snagged between his teeth, Wilson appeared intent. He seemed completely focused on the job at hand, but who knew what was going on with him? When he set the drum on the desk, he reached into the pocket of his robe. Ah, the ever-present tool kit. She should have known he’d have it with him. Drawing out the leather pouch, small but containing a comprehensive selection of miniature tools, Wilson set to work without a heartbeat’s hesitation. Utilizing several of the tiny appliances, and a few drops from a vial of oil, he made a number of swift but confident adjustments to the contraption’s workings.

“Well, it’s not exactly a miracle of the modern world nowadays...but Monsieur Reynard’s mechanism still has its charms, I must admit.”

Seconds later, Wilson reassembled it, then waggled his fingers—as if to say “jump to it”—indicating that Adela should pass the picture strip to him. Still keeping a firm hold on her precious drawings with her left hand, she complied, but her heart sank when Wilson glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. No matter how entranced he was with the praxinoscope, he certainly hadn’t forgotten the portfolio, either.

Blessedly, he didn’t remark on it, though, and got on with the job of setting the picture strip back in place. On a trial spin, the spinning mechanism worked perfectly, with just a smooth, swishing sound.

“Good Lord!” Wilson’s dark eyebrows shot up and a smirk widened his handsome mouth as the drum whirled round and round, round and round.

The little scenario lasted barely seconds, but that was more than enough to get its point across. The colorful and surprisingly well-executed drawings depicted a red-faced, mustachioed gentleman of military demeanor in the process of spanking the bottom of a plump, brazen-eyed floozy wearing nothing but her stockings and what appeared to be a rather flashy diamond necklace. In a particularly piquant touch, the spanking colonel’s manly member was poking proud and stiff out of the front of his trousers.

I must not look at Wilson. I must not look at Wilson.

Adela fixed her gaze firmly on the saucy show, and the repeated jerking and wriggling of the painted young woman and her rampant regimental beau. If Wilson was to look into her eyes right now, he’d know everything, her every dark secret, instantly. Then the whole scandalous farrago would be out in the open.

Yes, I might look like a drab, severe spinster, and a veteran of too many disastrous seasons...but I’m really just as much a libertine as Miss Spanked Bottom.

Nobody other than Sofia and Beatrice, and the boys at Sofia’s private “establishment,” were privy to Adela’s hidden self-indulgence of her senses. Nor did more than a handful know that she earned her pin money as “Isis,” one of London’s most famous erotic artists, whose works were much sought after by the great and the broad-minded.

Wilson must never, ever know that she paid men to service her...or that she drew their naked bodies to pay her family’s mounting bills.

The picture show circled on and on. The rude gentleman of the prominent member smacked the saucy young minx again and again. Wilson chuckled and leaned in closer, clearly entranced.

Adela waited for the worst. For the words that would say he’d worked it all out...and that she was damned.

“I do believe she’s wearing the Ruffington diamonds while she takes her licks,” he murmured, casting Adela a glance out of the corner of his eye. “She wouldn’t by any chance be modeled on you, would she?”

Silently, Adela let out her held breath. It wasn’t what she’d feared, but it still skimmed dangerously close to those shoals. Leaning closer, but not too close, she studied the painted necklace as best she could while the image still moved. It looked nothing like their family treasure, so why had Wilson made the comparison? He must have some ulterior motive, but as happened so often, his razor cheekbones supported an unrevealing mask.

“So, do you still find such activities titillating, Della?”

The taunting devil. That, at least, he did know.

During their shared summer visit at Ruffington Hall, all those years ago, they’d found other naughty treasures such as this. The Old Curmudgeon had his own clandestine collection of erotica, as so many of the nobility did, and after picking the library lock, she and Wilson had investigated it. Several very fine eighteenth-century etchings had made her blush like a peony, and had almost certainly ignited fires that they’d put out together, later, by the river.

Wilson didn’t seem to notice that she hadn’t answered him. “I was expecting to see dancing Harlequins or dogs doing tricks, not saucy libertines performing unspeakable acts of lewdness,” he murmured.

“Well, you would be the one to know all about unspeakable acts of lewdness.”

No! Why had she said that, of all things? Why did she let him goad her this way? Only ten or fifteen minutes in his company, and he’d already turned her into a complete nitwit again. Did his mighty brain act like a sponge and soak up all the intelligence in a room?

But it wasn’t only her mentality he’d made deficient. Her body was still in a riot from that kiss. And it had been even before that. Wilson Ruffington could render her a madwoman with barely any effort at all, and the worst of it was, her senses adored it. Despite the potential for an almighty disaster, there was nothing she longed for more than his touch.

“Yes, I’m fully conversant with most acts of vile libertinage. How about you, cousin dear? How goes your sensual education these days? It must be a work still in progress, or why else would you be in here in the first place?” Wilson’s voice was flippant, but there was an edge to it, as ominous as it was vague. His eyes were hard as he turned from the praxinoscope.

What’s the matter? Have I touched a raw nerve? Surely you’ve not been thinking of me all this time, so it must be that woman.

“That woman” was the way Adela always referred to the famous beauty Coraline in her mind. She’d avidly gobbled up every tidbit of news about Wilson’s association with the Frenchwoman, scanning the gossip columns and scurrilous rags like Marriott’s Monde, all the while hating herself for paying any attention. Wilson’s life was no longer her concern. Yet she’d still tortured herself, even purchasing a cabinet card of Coraline, then ripping it up, muttering over that woman’s straight, exquisite nose and flawless, pearly complexion.

I’ll bet you never aggravated her enough to make her run blindly into the branch of a tree, did you?

No, he’d probably murmured only sweet endearments and compliments to that woman, while they’d played exotic sensual games together. They’d have frolicked and indulged in spanking and other recherché practices. Adela ground her teeth, imagining them together, Coraline all flashing eyes, lush red lips and sublime, plump bosom, lust arcing between her and Wilson like the crackle from a demonstration of electrical power.

“Nothing to say?” Wilson’s voice was harsh. Was he really hurt by his lover’s desertion? “Don’t tell me you haven’t even thought about erotic pleasure since I touched you... I don’t believe that for a minute.”

Adela’s fingers went white on the portfolio. Again came that urge to whack him, barreling through her like a giant rolling ball. She was normally even-tempered, scrupulously in control, but he turned her into a termagant. Emotions surged. Anger. Jealousy. Desire. Burning, fulminating desire, and a longing to murder him, to dispatch him by means of intense pleasure.

“I have some knowledge of erotic arts and pastimes.” She hurled the comment at him, her chin up, her back straight.

“Really?” Wilson’s eyes flashed. His grin was back. “Pray expatiate, cousin. Have you perhaps sampled the arts of flagellation?” He nodded to the now still ’scope, and the wriggling woman and rampant man, frozen in time. “I didn’t even know you had a beau.”

“One doesn’t have to have a beau.”

Oh, please, stupid woman, don’t dig the hole even deeper!

Was Wilson closer now? It felt so, though she hadn’t seen him move. All she was sure of was that she’d made the most tremendous error, the worst possible. By nature her cousin was inquisitive, investigative. He was a bloodhound after the faintest of scents, a Scotland Yard detective picking at the most obscure clue. “I simply read widely,” she finished, praying he’d accept that, but waiting for his pounce.

“Hence your desire to breach this fortress.” He gestured around the book-lined room, at its potential treasures. “To further that erotic education of yours.” His tongue peeped out, just touching the center of his plush lower lip. “But there’s a big difference between reading books and looking at pictures...and doing what we did together seven years ago.”

Ah, now the knife goes right in! I should have run when he first arrived.

But running from Wilson had never been a successful strategy. Even if it would have allowed them the dance of polite avoidance during the rest of the weekend, instead of engaging in special combat, no holds barred.

“I was young, and I was a silly nincompoop.” It was hard to keep her voice cool. She was still a silly nincompoop where this man was concerned. The more she argued with Wilson, the more her body told her in no uncertain terms what her last shreds of good sense pleaded she deny. The tips of her breasts ached against the rigid edge of her corset, and in the pit of her belly the surge of desire was like a pain.

“And I paid for it in more ways than one.” Unable to help herself, she touched the bridge of her nose, where the tree branch had struck. It didn’t hurt now, but it had been agonizing then, so blindingly intense that it had expunged the golden glow of lingering pleasure.

“I’m sorry.” Before she could stop him, Wilson captured the hand that had touched her face, squeezing it gently. The apology was unspecific. It could have been for the tree, or for blunt words then or later, she didn’t know.

How she wanted to hate him. She had plenty of reasons. What he’d said. What his infuriating arrogance had made her angry enough to do. The simple fact that he was a man, a Ruffington, and alive, and thus the future recipient of all her stubborn, misogynistic grandfather’s wealth, as well as his title.

But none of this made any difference. Wilson’s pale, glowing eyes and eccentric male beauty still muddled her. There was no way to remain rational and sensible when she was anywhere near him. He besieged her without even trying.

Run. Run now, her mind said.

Stay, for pity’s sake, stay, said her body, singing with lust and energy.

Wilson’s fingers were warm, the heat in them traveling through the point of contact and flowing around her like the glow from a jigger of brandy. She couldn’t pull free. She no longer wanted to. And even if she did, she was hampered by the need to cling on hard to her portfolio.

What if I show him the wretched thing and be done with it? He’ll find a way to see it, anyway. He’s Wilson.

When Wilson kissed her fingertips, the thrill made her tremble.

“Well, it can’t be helped now,” she muttered, and his lips curved again as if he knew that was the most acknowledgment he would get of his scant apology.

Curse the man, he could see the effect he was having on her, and the only consolation was that effects worked both ways. When Adela stole a look at his groin, that was obvious.

Jigger of brandy? Surely she’d consumed a pint of it, but with just the intoxication and none of the detriments. To be desired so could turn any woman’s head, not least of all hers.

Wilson laughed, following the direction of her glance, then nodded toward the portfolio. “So what’s in this, then? More pictures of gentlemen’s nether regions? That seemed to be what you were specializing in last time I saw your work.”

With the words came another pounce. And prestidigitation this time. Wilson plucked the portfolio clean out of her hand, and Adela squeaked and tried to grab it back, without any luck. As he whirled away, his dressing gown billowed about him and he strode toward the desk. The praxinoscope had lost its allure now, and he shoved it aside and set down his prize.

Adela shot after him, her mind filled with the rudest insults. Confound his “sorry.” It’d just been a trick to get under her guard. He was already picking at the ribbons securing the binder. “No! Don’t! That’s private. You have no business prying into people’s belongings.” She tugged at his sleeve, but he just went on, his long tapered fingertips easily conquering the fastenings. “Just because you’re grandfather’s heir doesn’t give you any rights over me and my things. Leave that alone!”

Miraculously, he hesitated, the ribbons unfurled across the desk. He placed a hand over hers, on his shoulder, and his eyes were sly as silver ice as he regarded her sideways. “Why should I? Give me some incentive.” His look made her blood run hot, then cold, then hot again, surging pell-mell through her veins. She wanted to kill him, but at the same time she wanted to lie down on the carpet and demand that he mount her. “Perhaps you could beg?”

Damn you! Damn you to damned damnation and back again, you despicable swine!

“Don’t be absurd, Wilson. I’m simply going to ask you, as a gentleman, to observe my privacy.” His warm hand was still over hers, transmitting messages of sultry seduction, addling her brain.

“But I’m not a gentleman. I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman.” He prized her fingers off his arm and conveyed them to his lips again. The touch of his mouth minced her thoughts, leaving only urges. “Surely you of all people don’t think I’m one?”

“No. I don’t. Not anymore.” For a brief time in their youth, he’d been a prince of the universe to her, its very center. But no longer. Not for years.

His mouth moved over her skin. Was that moisture she felt? Was the lascivious devil licking her? Her entire body shuddered, and only a titanic effort of will kept her from swaying. Instead of feeling Wilson’s tongue against her palm, she seemed to feel its stroke, slow and lingering, between her legs....

She blinked, battling for control. Confused over how she’d come to this. Wilson pivoted on his heel and turned to her, still holding her hand. “How about we strike a bargain? You give me another kiss. A proper one, and a little dalliance with it... And I won’t open this portfolio of yours and look at whatever it is you don’t want me to see.” His eyes were level, daring her to accept, their slow glint ever more disorientating.

Don’t do it, Adela. Don’t agree. You know him. You’ll end up in even worse trouble. The drawings are precisely what he thinks they might be....

Why had she ever come in here in the first place? She had no need of Lord Rayworth’s erotic treasures to inspire her; her imagination was sufficient. And her memory. Her mind was like a photographic plate, and she could develop anything she wanted on it. The ability to conjure images out of air was her great artistic gift.

Adela looked at Wilson’s mouth, knowing she was lost. He was a blackguard, but he excited her more than any other man ever had or probably ever could do. She wanted those lips on hers again, and in other places, too. Zones they’d never actually explored in real life, but which cried out for him now. His eyes didn’t look quite so silver currently; the pupils were huge, dark as a thunderhead, with a lightning-crack of promise in their depths, an intensity of desire that matched her own.

“What dalliance? What do you mean?” Oh, she was such a fool....

“Don’t fret. Nothing too compromising, Della. Just a few pleasant moments, I promise...pleasure I owe you.” He smiled at her, a very imp of mischief and devilment, exotic yet familiar.

She didn’t trust him. She couldn’t trust him. He’d been incorrigible seven years ago, and she had no reason to believe from their brief social meetings in the interim that he’d reformed even in the slightest degree.

“I don’t believe you, Wilson. You’ll take liberties. It’s what you do.” She tried to tug away, but couldn’t. His knowledge of Oriental fighting arts meant he knew special arcane grips that were light yet unyielding. And even without them, his eyes would still have held her.

“But you liked liberties once, Della. In fact, you invited them.” It was his turn to tug now, and as if drugged, she moved toward him. “Surely you’ve not forgotten what we shared? I promise I’ll honor your secrets.” He glanced at the portfolio, and the fingers of his free hand flexed. “All of them.”

“You’re a devious and manipulative man, Wilson,” she hissed, and then flung herself at him, grabbing his warm face between her hands and kissing him hard on the lips.

Well, that’s one way to distract him, the rational part of her brain observed coolly, while all the rest of her reveled in his taste.

But Wilson’s soft grunt of triumph as she opened her mouth to him almost made her retreat again. She’d got him right where he wanted to be, and before she could react, his hands slid around her, gripping her tight. He was still scheming, but at least for the moment his hands were on her, not the portfolio. She let her own arms slide right around him, clinging close, her blood pounding and racing in her veins.

Oh, Lord, this is Wilson.... Wilson...

Everything always circled back to him. He’d made her what she was, a sensual woman with turbulent erotic appetites. Seven years ago, he’d turned a lever and set lust in motion, and even though they’d fallen out again almost as quickly as they’d clung together, she hadn’t given up on the pleasures of the flesh.

Wilson Ruffington was the author, albeit unwitting, of a wicked secret life.

4

More Wicked than you Could Possibly Imagine

But there was no time to think of that moment of transformation now. In the perilous present, Wilson’s tongue probed her mouth just as it had during their first hot kiss, the wicked muscular thrust aping that other thrust, that other wonderful hot, wet, hard intrusion. The possession she still wanted, and still wanted from him. Ignoring the murmuring voices of reason and tediously pervasive doubts about her reputation, she pressed her body against him as hard as she could, rocking her pelvis against his in a primal rhythm.

He was still hard, unyielding as the oak of the door and the desk and the mighty trees in the park beyond the window. She could feel the heat of him through all their layers of clothing.

“Oh, Della, my Della, how you still rouse me,” he growled against her neck, his lips nibbling her skin just above the little collar of her gown. With one hand still gripping her bottom through her skirt and petticoats, he set the other to the task of unfastening the row of jet buttons down the front of her bodice. As ever, he was quicker and defter than any man had a right to be, but his manual dexterity had always matched his rare intelligence.

Adela tried not to think, because if she did, she’d deem herself too idiotic to be allowed to live. All that mattered was to feel and savor experience while she could. Her own hands ranged over what parts of Wilson she could reach, diving into his tousled, silky hair and stroking his strong back beneath the patterned fabric of his eccentric dressing gown. It was only fair that he should be revealed, just as she was, and as he rested her on the edge of the desk while he attacked her bodice, she snatched at his shirt and wrenched and pulled at his buttons.

“Yes!” Wilson paused in his efforts, dashed her hands away and ripped at his shirt himself, rending it open. It was a buttoned garment, unfastening all the way down in the new American style, and the little discs flew everywhere as he bared himself almost to the waist. Conveying her hand to his body, he pressed it against his skin and the wispy peppering of dark hair across the center of his chest.

When Adela dug her nails in, he laughed.

“You’re a wicked woman, Della, though no doubt I deserve the punishment.” Dashing her hand away again, he returned his attention to the front of her gown.

You do not know the half of it, cousin dear. I’m more wicked than you could possibly imagine. For a moment, Adela thought of other men, other chests.

Manipulating ribbons and buttons and hooks, Wilson managed to get at what he sought. She groaned when he wedged a hand inside the top of her corset by force and cupped her breast. She was slightly formed, and he cradled the entire curve, his thumb settling on her nipple as if he owned her very flesh. It might have been only yesterday when he’d last rubbed her this way and made her squirm. Instead of seven long years, during which lately she’d been compelled to seek other hands.

“You’re beautiful...so beautiful.” Given the length of the statement, and the long burning look he gave her, Adela almost believed him. Then reality returned, bringing with it her harsh little laugh. She wasn’t beautiful, and he was a liar, an unrepentant sweet-talker of women. No doubt that woman demanded the tribute of pretty words and compliments as a right, but Adela Ruffington preferred the truth, unadorned.

“Don’t insult me.” She narrowed her eyes at him, even while she closed her hand over his. She wasn’t lovely. She was flawed. But she still had needs, and as Wilson had stirred them, both then and now, it was his responsibility to assuage them.

“Don’t start that again.” He tightened his hand on her breast, his fingers and thumb ruthless. He trapped her nipple between them, creating a twinge of pain among the pleasure, a bright, intense shard that darted instantly from her breast to her belly. Between her legs, her sex pulsed in a warm ripple.

“Start what?”

His fingers twisted, lightly pinching. Pleasure-pain.

“Denying your beauty. I won’t have it. You are lovely, and I’ll punish you if you persist in denying it, believe me.”

Adela could barely breathe. A threshold loomed before her, a line beyond which lay a delicious peril, the dark, sensual play only hinted at by the brash lovers in the praxinoscope reel. It wasn’t an entirely unknown country to her, but she was almost certain Wilson wouldn’t realize that.

The frolicsome pair in the moving pictures were far from the first she’d seen engage in a spanking game. She’d seen it in the flesh...and felt it, too.

“You can’t order me what to feel, Wilson. Even if we’d been the most intimate of friends for the last seven years, I still wouldn’t obey you.”

They were a pair of mythical beasts head to head in a battle. Adela wouldn’t give in, and she knew Wilson wouldn’t, either. He had the upper hand at present, though—and it was on her breast, squeezing and plying wicked pleasure.

“Liars should be punished.” His low, menacing voice made her wriggle just as much as his tormenting fingertips did. “And when you say you’re not beautiful, you are lying.”

“I’m not!”

“You are to me, and to any right-thinking man with even a scrap of discernment.” He shot forward, grabbing the back of her neck with his free hand and jamming his mouth down on hers, tongue stabbing again for entrance. At the same time he pinched her nipple hard, making her gasp, and allowing him access between her lips.

Wilson kissed like a marauder, like a brigand, forcing her back against the edge of the desk, tweaking her nipple, plucking at it repeatedly as he thrust over and over with his tongue. Adela felt pins slipping from her half-collapsed chignon as his fingers held her head unrelentingly.

You’re an animal, Wilson. A pirate. A wicked despoiler of women... Please don’t stop.

Her jaw ached by the time he freed her and gazed into her eyes from the closest of quarters. His own eyes were as pale and silvery as ever around the periphery, but at the center his pupils were black and dilated with lust. “I’m going to punish you, Della,” he breathed, the exhalation sweet and spicy against her face. “Just like that naughty little girlie in the praxinoscope reel. I’m going to smack your gorgeous bottom and make you squeal. And then you’re going to damn well admit that you’re lovely, do you hear me?”

“Do what the devil you want, Wilson, but I won’t lie.” She held his gaze, the pit of her belly trembling. Wicked urges rattled around inside her, wild and uncontained, despite his hold on her. She wanted to haul up her skirts and bare herself to him, challenging him to do his worst, inviting him to plunge into her as he’d once done, taking her breath away.

“Oh, I’ll do what I want, don’t you worry. But you are a liar.”

Pausing only to give her tender nipple one last twist, he dragged his hand out of her bodice and grabbed hold of her skirts without further ado. Taking the voluminous layers of bombazine and flannel and cambric in an untidy grip, he hauled them up, tugging and bunching until he’d exposed her stockings and her garters and her drawers. The latter were old-fashioned; Adela had other calls upon her funds than the latest styles in pretty new unmentionables, and precious little to spend on presentable gowns to go over them. Wilson uttered a happy grunt when he discovered the split that gave him access to her body.

“Oh, I love these. All women should wear these convenient old things. It makes a man’s job so much easier, especially when he’s in a hurry.”

Convenient or no, Adela was glad of her old split drawers when Wilson’s fingertips reached their moist and trembling goal.

“I...I don’t care. I don’t dress for men,” she gasped, “especially crude, grabbing ones like you.” It was difficult to breathe, even to think. Unerringly, Wilson settled his middle finger on her clitoris and rolled it slowly and unctuously, like an oiled ball bearing. “I...oh, dear Lord...I thought you might have cultivated more sophisticated carnal manners by now, Wilson, but you dive straight in and paw madly, just the way you did at nineteen.”

It was impossible not to squirm. Impossible not to rock on his hand, inciting more pleasure. Had he forgotten his threat to spank her? Adela hardly cared, as long as he caressed her like this first.

“More insults, eh, Della? On top of everything else. Time to spank you for disrespect and downright wickedness.” There was laughter in his voice, but the needs of her body were Adela’s one priority. All else fell by the wayside. Nothing mattered but Wilson holding her, and his finger flicking and circling. If he stopped, she might die, or at least scream blue murder.

Wilson stopped as if he’d heard her thoughts. He withdrew the divine finger. Adela let out a strangled cry and tried to jam her puss back onto his hand.

“Greedy Della. You like being toyed with, don’t you? You like having me play with your plump little clitty, don’t you?” His breath was hot against her neck, his whisper a zephyr drifting down over her throat and her exposed cleavage. Adela bit her lip, commanding herself not to speak or move, but a moan of need slipped the leash and her hips jerked.

“Answer me, Della. You like being played with, don’t you? Just like some randy little maid in the pantry being interfered with by an importunate footman?” Wilson’s mouth settled on her neck, in the hollow beneath her jaw, and he nipped her, his teeth sharp, the pressure measured to a fine degree. “Admit it, and when I’ve spanked your bottom, I’ll fondle you between your legs until you spend.”

“I don’t need you for that, Wilson!” she hissed, every muscle straining with the effort of not reacting. “I’m perfectly capable of attending to myself, thank you. Every woman is.”

“But not every woman has the wits or the sensuality to do it, Della. Most are too God-fearing or too afraid their mamas will find out that they’re impure and degenerate.”

“Well, I’m...I’m sorry for them, and I don’t care two pins for what my mother thinks.”

“Wicked, wicked Della. Lack of filial respect now. Whatever am I going to do with you?” His palm settled on her breast through her bodice again and gave it a quick, rough squeeze. “Come along, time to deal with your sins now.”

Wilson Ruffington, you are the most towering hypocrite in the entire British Empire!

He was far more the sinner than she, despite her secret erotic life. He was self-indulgent and selfish. He cared nothing for the feelings of others, or for the observance of any kind of good or moral behavior. And yet right at this moment, she would allow him any liberty, anything at all, to assuage her needs.

“Lean over the desk. Show me your bottom.”

Easier said than done. How typical of a man to forget about her corset only moments after he’d criticized her for wearing it. How would he like to wear it for a day, in the interests of scientific inquiry?

But one look in Wilson’s eyes told her he’d not forgotten at all. He was an encyclopedia, all facts retained, and he was no doubt gauging how much the unremitting undergarment restricted her, and how its pressures might come to bear upon her body. A slight smile curved his lips, and when he maneuvered her into position, the lower edge of the stiffened garment dug into the pit of her belly, making her grunt aloud.

Wilson made a sound, too. A masculine purr of satisfaction.

The sensations were abominable. Wicked. Wonderful.

The lower border of her corset poked her in a sensitive zone, like an etheric hand bearing down on the very root of her clitoris. It made her want to sob, gasp for breath and wriggle against the desk—not to mention ignore every last atom of her pride, reach down to diddle herself and continue doing so until she had a shuddering, towering orgasm.

“Now then, let’s see you.” With cheerful efficiency, Wilson attacked her skirts again, dragging the whole lot of them upward, petticoats and all, in one haphazard mass. “Oh, very nice,” he murmured, slipping a fingertip under her garter and the top of her stocking, and running it along the bare skin above.

Adela gnawed her knuckle. How much more of this could she stand? The pressure in her belly, and the dreadful tension in her sex, were playing havoc with her decorum. Not that she’d ever had much of that in the first place. Slowly, slipping into a sensual reverie, she began moving her hips rhythmically, and clenching her inner muscles. Perhaps she could trigger a crisis for herself and cheat her wicked cousin at his own game?

Deft fingers grasped the edges of the vent in her drawers and dragged it wide-open. The room was warm, but the cooler draft across her hindquarters made them quiver and flex. Adela let out a sob. She was exposed, ignominiously uncovered.

Adela Ruffington, you are the second most towering hypocrite in the entire British Empire!

The voice inside her, the spokesperson of her senses and her deepest urges, remonstrated with her. The exposure was intoxicating, her bare bottom a potent source of feminine power. She could almost taste Wilson’s lust even without feeling the pressure of his cock. Her exposed rump was an object of veneration to him. He was no different from any other man in that respect. The professional boys at Sofia Chamfleur’s house of pleasure all enjoyed ogling their clients’ buttocks, even hers, which weren’t particularly ample. With a secret grin, Adela clenched her interior muscles, both for her own pleasure and to make her flesh dance.

What do you think of that, dear cousin?

“Della! You wicked vixen,” Wilson growled, laying his hands upon her bare behind like a greedy boy grabbing a brace of muffins. “You’re sublime. You know that, don’t you? So delectable, I’ve really got to punish you.”

“Well, get on with it, then. Don’t shilly-shally.” Resting on her elbows, Adela twisted around and glared at him, challenging him with her eyes, and with the smooth nakedness of her flesh.

“Very well. As you command, milady.” The cry was hoarse as his hand came up in readiness.

Adela looked away again, bracing herself.

Wilson’s palm crashed down on her left buttock, swift and hard.

Oh...oh...oh...

She let out a long, hiccupping groan, the cheek of her bottom flaming in less time than it took to acknowledge the impact. Her sex surged, the bump of the blow transmitted to her clitoris by the corset’s edge pushing against her belly.

“Oh, please, please...” Was that a sob of desire or a wail of pain? She wasn’t sure. Between the lips of her sex, fluid oozed and flesh rippled.

As Wilson landed a few more slaps, she lost the grip on herself, surging and rubbing her hips against the desk like a wild woman, moaning like a wanton. Her bottom tingled more and more with each blow.

“What do you want, Della? Tell me...give me the words.”

The hand that had spanked now lay still across her simmering buttocks, spanning both cheeks. In an act of supreme provocation, one finger dipped into the groove between.

“Make me spend, you hideous plaguing monster. Make me spend right this instant, or I swear I’ll do it myself!” Tugging at her skirts, she began to rummage beneath them. How long would it take for Wilson to galvanize himself into action? She couldn’t wait on his whims.

Roughly, he dashed her hands away.

“No! Don’t touch yourself. You’ll take pleasure at my hand, or I’ll tie your wrists together and leave you here, unsatisfied.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” She attacked her skirts anew in defiance.

“Try me,” purred Wilson, effortlessly catching her wrists at the small of her back with one hand, then applying his other hand to the bundle of bombazine, flannel and cambric. Throwing the whole lot back up over her hips, he slid his fingers in between her legs, right into her sex. One long digit plunged into her vagina, up to the second knuckle.

Adela grunted. Wilson’s fingers were narrow and elegant, the digits of a scientist and inventor, but the one inside her felt thick and intrusive. Was he surprised at how easily it breached her? For all he knew, she’d been chaste for seven years.

If only you knew what I know. What I’ve done and seen.

To confound him, she gripped him hard with her inner muscles, then bit back another cry as pleasure blossomed. It just needed his finger on her clitty to tip her over.

“If I release your hands, will you struggle?” He leaned over her, his voice low in her ear. “I’ll make it worth your while not to.”

Have you read my mind, you evil man?

It seemed he had. When she nodded her assent, beyond speech, he attacked her clothing, sneaking a hand under all the layers and beneath her belly, to seek the heart of the matter. A lot of tussling and burrowing was involved, but Wilson was nothing if not persistent. Within moments, his fingertips inveigled their way into the front split in her drawers, pushing straight at the wiry curls of her puss, searching for his target. As he did so, he twisted the finger inside her, crooking it against an area of sensitivity that made her grunt anew, rendered animal by sensations as disquieting as they were pleasurable. It was too much, too intense, too perverse, but even as tears of surprise formed in the corners of her eyes, she bore down, without the power to resist.

“I...I...”

Her voice failed her again, muffled by an agony of feeling. It plagued her far more than the heat in her bottom, yet seemed akin to it, as hot in its own way. As Wilson nudged and rocked her, low animal sounds broke from her throat, horrifyingly revealing.

“Good, eh?” he whispered, the middle finger of his other hand sliding around in the slick delta of her sex. The tip of it brushed her clitoris from the side, making her jerk and shift her hips to get more contact, but he slid it away again with a low, wicked laugh.

“I never realized that you might be such a voluptuary, Della... You don’t seem to have any inhibitions. Do your friends and acquaintances know how randy you are?” Leaning over, he kissed the nape of her neck, his lips nestling against thick strands of hair that had broken free from her coiffure. “What would they say if they knew you let men stick their fingers inside you like this?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care!” Her voice ragged, she wriggled about, defying him, grabbing at the offending digit with her channel, using her hands to brace herself against the desk for more control. “I don’t let many men stick their fingers inside me...and I’ve only let you do it because it pleases me. I wouldn’t do it solely for your satisfaction.”

Wilson let out a gasp. “You amaze me, Della, and sometime soon I will be asking you some very searching questions.” He nudged against her, rubbing his groin against her haunch, where he’d spanked her. His cock was like stone where it pressed against the glowing, heated skin. “But in the meantime, be assured that touching you has always delighted me.”

“Tumescence isn’t satisfaction,” she retorted. “As I know, right now, to my cost.” She swirled her hips, then let out a sharp cry at the fierce sensations. “Now come on, Wilson, play the game. You made a bargain. Fulfill it!”

“Of course, my queen. As you command.” His voice was silky and facetious, but it was his fingers, not his vocal cords, that concerned her. She groaned long and low as he obeyed her, settling a fingertip on her clitoris, then circling hard.

White flame danced behind Adela’s eyelids, and her hands flailed like captured doves. Her sex convulsed in long, racking waves of pleasure, massaging Wilson’s finger as her clitoris danced and pulsed. Dimly she heard a crash, and in a far part of her mind realized she’d knocked the wretched praxinoscope clean off the desk and undone all Wilson’s good work with the tiny set of tools.

Her hips jerked and rocked as if a demon possessed her body. She’d not climaxed this hard in a long time, if ever, and her clash with Wilson only made the bliss more luscious. The hands of her cousin, also her enemy, were like an angel’s.

The orgasm rose and waned, rose and waned, then rose again, but eventually, she was a spent, wrung-out rag. Slumped forward over the disordered desk, she quite forgot the firm restriction of her corset and the nakedness of her bottom, bared to the world. The door she’d opened with her hairpins remained unlocked, but she hadn’t the energy to worry about it. If a servant or a fellow guest came along, it was the whim of fate. All that mattered was the soft, golden glow in her loins and buttocks, and the iron-hard cock still pressed against her thigh.

But it was Wilson’s turn for pleasure now. Quid pro quo. Glow or not, she would have to rouse...and shock his senses.

5

Quid Pro Quo

There was no question of intercourse.

No matter how much she wanted to fuck Wilson, and how much her body—satiated or otherwise—cried out for him, it simply could not occur. And she had a shrewd suspicion he wouldn’t even ask her to oblige.

Despite their thorny history, her cousin had never seemed to doubt her intelligence. Seven years ago they’d been a pair of blundering, clueless ingenues, but now they were both adults. And well informed, both with a clear idea of the results and repercussions of heedless rutting. Wilson might be arrogant, manipulative, impatient of those less brilliant than himself, but he wasn’t an unfeeling beast. Which, it had to be said, some men in society were.

Wilson would never expect her to put herself in real jeopardy to satisfy his lust.

At Sofia Chamfleur’s discreet establishment for women, devices of rubber were employed. French letters, which ensured there were no unfortunate consequences to secret pleasure. Adela even possessed a small tin containing several of these essential and useful items herself, although thus far, she’d never contemplated needing them outside the walls of Sofia’s quiet Hampstead mansion. Simply having them at all was a defiance. A secret way to thumb her nose at a society that seemed expressly fashioned for the advantage of men over women, despite a member of her own sex on the throne. They were a talisman of the freer life to which she aspired, and to some extent actively pursued.

But with no French letters about her person at the moment, she would have to take Wilson in hand if she planned to bring him off.

Finally managing to stir herself, Adela straightened up. The black swathes of her skirt dropped neatly into place, and apart from her unbuttoned bodice, she appeared decent.

Working on doing up her buttons, her fingers shook. Pleasurable aftershocks, and the heat in her rear made her fumble. Wilson’s sharp, pale eyes followed her every tiny movement, and that didn’t help, either. He was still close enough for her to feel his breath upon her, and leaning on the desk, with his hands in his trouser pockets, he made no attempt whatsoever to hide his erection. Ever contrary, he seemed to be flaunting it.

“I expect you want me to do something about that?” Adela nodded at the excitement in his trousers. No use prevaricating.

“That would be most pleasant. Most pleasant indeed.” Wilson’s voice was bland, but his face was more telling. A strange amalgam of a cool scientific, detachedly observing his own physical phenomenon...and infuriating masculine smugness. They were all like that, men. The handsome boys at Sofia’s house were inordinately proud of their own equipage, even dedicated as they were to the service and pleasuring of women. Something Wilson would readily discover if he reneged on their agreement and opened her portfolio.

There were sketches of Yuri and Clarence and Lionel—her three favorites—among her drawings, all in a blatant state of nudity and arousal. These works were destined for the pages of the journal Divertissements, or as commissions by private buyers, regular and wealthy patronesses of the beaux in question, all of whom had generous funds at their disposal.

This secret career as “Isis,” the noted erotic artist, was how Adela had been clandestinely bridging the gap between the pittance allowed to her mother, herself and her sisters by her eccentric, misogynistic grandfather...and Mrs. Ruffington’s social aspirations, and the maintenance of a standard of living to which she was accustomed. Adela might be frugal in respect of her own requirements, and young Marguerite was naturally wise, but Mama and Sybil hadn’t a clue about money, except how to spend it.

Adela’s art income was a necessity, and she couldn’t jeopardize it by revealing its provenance to Wilson.

She decided on a direct frontal attack. The best way to distract even a polymath genius, if that genius was male. “I won’t fuck you, so you can forget about that.”

“I don’t expect you to, Della. I wouldn’t want to compromise you with a babe out of wedlock.”

Adela looked sharply at him. He’d edged a few inches away from her now, but seemed to have retreated much farther than that. His voice was cold and his eyes looked angry. About to speak, Adela hesitated. What had caused the sudden reaction? Was it simple annoyance? Or pain? What?

“Hah, if Mama were here, she’d probably throw you bodily onto me thirty seconds after she’d finished screeching and wailing and having the vapors because you’d compromised me.” Adela almost laughed. She could imagine such a thing really happening. “Anything to compel you to marry me. It was her primary goal in accepting this weekend’s invitation.”

“I don’t doubt it. But she’ll be disappointed, even if you aren’t.” Wilson’s beautiful mouth thinned into a hard chilly line. It was as if they were right back to those days at Ruffington Hall, when he’d come out with all manner of blunt, apparently unfeeling utterances, sometimes, she suspected, purely for effect. “I don’t plan to marry and I’ll never be a father.”

How can you be sure?

The question balanced on the tip of her tongue, but his silver-blue eyes kept her silent. Had he wanted to sire a child on his mistress, that woman, and been refused? Was that the true cause of their parting?

“Grandfather won’t be pleased. He’s pinning all his hopes on you, now that our line of the family has produced nothing but useless women who drain his resources.”

“Not entirely useless. Not from my standpoint.” Heat stirred in the silver now, like pale hot metal. Clearly, Wilson still possessed his youthful facility to shut away unpleasant thoughts as quickly as they’d occurred. He glanced down at the bulge in his trousers with a mercurial wink.

“You’re atrocious. Indefensible.” Yet Adela still found herself smiling, and drawn to him like iron to a magnet. She flicked her gaze to his groin, wondering, wondering. It was seven long years since she’d seen what lay behind that fine worsted, and no doubt the best quality woolen jersey of his undergarments, but she could still recall every particular detail. Her first ever sight of a man’s rampant member. She’d drawn it from memory often enough.

Oh, dear. I’m weakening.

If Wilson hadn’t been watching her like a raptor, she’d have clutched her hand to her bosom to calm her inner fluttering. He must not know how susceptible she was. She could accept his knowledge of her as a woman of physical needs, but her finer emotions must remain impenetrable.

And for that, she needed to quit this room as soon as possible. Which required that she dispatch Wilson to erotic oblivion as quickly as she was able, and then flee with her portfolio. To stay longer was to risk playing tricks with her mind, and making one afternoon seven years ago into yesterday. Her emotional equilibrium was a hard-won prize, and she wouldn’t sacrifice it for a few moments of dalliance.

She could purchase her dalliances with no attendant complications. To tangle them with Wilson was to flirt with disaster....

* * *

WHY AM I TREMBLING? This is Adela, not Coraline. She’s a cautious spinster nowadays and probably as inept and fumbling as we both were seven years ago. She probably hasn’t seen a cock since she last had her hands on mine.

Used to the sophisticated caresses of Coraline, and before her, a very small number of experienced women, Wilson wasn’t sure what to expect of Adela. Granted, she had a rather unexpected and tantalizing interest in erotica, but with no husband and no suitors that he was aware of, what practical experience could she have had since they’d last been together?

And yet she’d been responsive to his touch. And willing in a way that took his breath away. Her only resistance had been to him, not the pleasure. She’d actively courted his caresses...and the spanking.

As if she’s used to them...

He dropped his hand to his crotch, ready to ply the buttons, but before he could, Adela dashed his fingers away. No dithering near-virgin would be so confident. His heart skipped and his cock throbbed heavily, even while the snake of suspicion stirred.

Where did all this confidence come from? Was there some secret swain in his cousin’s life? He followed the doings of the Ruffington women, but there was no scandal attached to them, nothing of a risqué nature. They lived relatively quietly, and were certainly not a part of any set that he moved in. But to be this assured, Adela must have had her hand on a man in the past seven years, despite her lack of prospects.

“Come on, let’s get this over with,” she said crisply, attacking his fly without a hint of hesitation, as if she whipped some lucky fellow out of his trousers on a daily basis.

Wilson clamped his teeth together. Biting down on sudden, twisting jealousy while Adela made short work of his buttons, and then his linen within.

Who the devil has she been toying with? I’ll have to investigate.

Then his resolution dissolved. Warm, assured fingers settled on his flesh and gripped him in a clever light hold, bringing his erect cock out into the cooler air.

No room for thought now. His universe contracted into just a hand and a cock, a woman’s slender grasp caressing his aching flesh. Wilson groaned and braced himself against the desk. His knees seemed to turn to paper, and he could barely stand up. When Adela slid closer, and centered her finger and thumb above and below his glans, his hips bumped forward, pushing his eager loins at her.

“Oh, Della, Della...”

She took his breath away, stroking and teasing, delicately rolling the head of his cock and massaging the sensitive areas with all the skill of a practiced courtesan. Silky fluid flowed from his tip, and he shook his head and closed his eyes as she reached down into his drawers to cup his balls.

Oh, God, he was going to come any second. He wanted to shout, but he knew not what. This torment was too exquisite; he needed more than just an instant’s worth. He wanted it to last, to go on and on. Maybe forever.

Yet still, in one of his mental compartments he was still thinking, frantically thinking, thrashing around for explanations. How in heaven’s name had Adela learned to handle a man like this? Even if she did have a sweetheart, she was no Coraline, no high demimondaine. Yet her touch spoke of a legion of enslaved lovers, discarded yet still begging her to return to them. The shadow of the woman he’d so recently considered marrying hovered over him, but he closed his eyes and compelled her back from whence she’d come, angry, yes, angry that Coraline had intruded at this moment. He didn’t want to think of another woman when the woman he was with could do that with the tip of her finger.

Wilson bit down hard on his lower lip. He had to last, even if Adela was intent on driving him clean over the edge.

“What were you doing in here, Della? Surely you didn’t pick the lock just to play with the praxinoscope?”

His voice was high and strangled, and he couldn’t keep his hips still. They jerked convulsively, wafting forward, seeking more and more of the divine ministrations of his cousin, the unexpected love goddess.

“Oh, so you saw that....” Her fingertips teased and twirled. Wilson fought, fought hard for control. “I’d heard that the earl had a collection of erotica and I wanted to see it. The praxinoscope was simply an amusing bonus.”

“But why would you want to see lewd drawings?” His fingers twitched, preparing to drag her hands off him before he screamed and howled. He wanted to close his own fingers around hers so she never, ever let go. “I would have thought that by now you’d have grown out of youthful curiosity.... It’s not exactly a ladylike interest, is it, erotica?”

Adela’s laugh was sharp and derisory. Her hand stilled. “Good grief, you men. You’re all the same. You have no comprehension of the inner life of a woman.” She gave him a narrow look, one that made him feel small, even while he was rampant. “And I thought that you were different, Wilson. A man of vision...yet it seems you’re just as narrow in your views of women as the rest of your sex.” She started to pull away, but he caught her hands and held them on him.

“Please...please, don’t stop, Della,” he gasped. “I’m sorry. I was making unsupported assumptions. It’s just...”

What the hell was she doing to his brain? He couldn’t think straight. The compartments were all collapsing into one blind, yearning mess. Not even Coraline had ever done this.

“You can’t imagine why a gently bred woman like me would continue to be interested in the life of the senses, eh? Someone as plain and dull as me?” Her dark eyes flashed, but blessedly, she began to caress him again, her fingers slow and taunting. “Someone with so little in the way of glamour and savoir faire to recommend her?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Della, stop saying that. It’s just willful. You aren’t plain and dull. You’re a handsome and alluring woman...I’ve always believed that. Why won’t you believe me?” He gasped, the glittering jewel of release barely a breath away.

“Do you have a handkerchief?”

His eyes snapped open. What?

“A handkerchief, Wilson? Do you have one? Even someone who dresses as bizarrely as you can’t be seen to be sporting semen stains, and it would be the height of bad manners to ejaculate all over the earl’s fine furniture or carpeting.”

Wilson almost choked with laughter. She was priceless. He fumbled in the pocket of his dressing gown and wrenched out a freshly laundered white handkerchief. Adela snatched it from him, shook it open and enrobed the tip of his cock in it.

Then she went to work on him in earnest. Stroking firmly, back and forth, back and forth, she slid her fingers up and down his length in a way that made him grunt, jerk his hips...and finally, in a savage rush, release his seed.

For a few seconds, Wilson was blind, deaf and dumb, existing only in a state of ragged bliss and pounding sensation. The moments lasted a century, yet also a micro pinpoint of time, then, reluctantly, he tumbled back into himself again, as if falling from a cliff high above. With some distaste, he observed his subsiding member wrapped up in the bundle of his own handkerchief.

With a spirit-crushing little moue, Adela withdrew her hands, relinquishing him as quickly as she’d grabbed him in the first place. Wilson watched her rub her fingers together as if anxious to wipe off his spoor.

“There, all done,” she said briskly. “Everyone’s satisfied. Now I must go, if you don’t mind. It’ll soon be time to dress for dinner, and with just one maid among four of us, that takes quite a while.”

In the midst of stuffing himself back into his linen, and his handkerchief into his pocket, Wilson realized that she’d grabbed up her portfolio and was halfway to the door.

“Don’t go. Stay just a minute. I have so many questions....” He fumbled with his buttons even as he shadowed her across the room. It was only by physically leaning on the door itself that he stopped her from quitting the room without another word.

Adela tapped her foot, pursed her lips, visibly desperate to be rid of him. Where was the languorous sybarite who’d charmed him barely moments ago? She seemed cool, detached, irritated.

Irritation flooded Wilson, too. Was he so repugnant to her that she regretted everything? Dash it, she’d enjoyed herself at the time. Not even the most accomplished actress could have faked those moans and the way she’d wriggled and thrashed. And she’d been wet, by God, silky wet. That simply could not be fabricated. If she denied her pleasure, she was an out-and-out liar. He grabbed the door handle and immobilized it. He’d have an answer from her if it killed him, and the unyielding set of her mouth made him feel as stubborn and as mulish as she was.

“Why were you in here? What’s in the portfolio that you’re so protective of?” He fired the questions like bullets. To shock an answer from her. “Where did you learn to pleasure a man so exquisitely?”

Her glowing eyes widened, and she clasped the portfolio to her bosom. She was still calculating the probability of escaping the room, working out if she could get away with all her secrets intact. He could see her sharp mind ticking over, almost as cleverly as his. Was she weighing how much to reveal? Which of her secrets was the least critical and could be sacrificed?

Whatever were they, these things she hid?

Wilson almost gasped aloud when Adela snagged her lower lip with her strong white teeth. His cock—which he’d believed settled—kicked again, hard in his undergarment like a length of tropical wood, aching, aching, aching as if he’d never spent.

“Very well.” Her chin came up. She almost seemed to grow in stature before his eyes, a martial Amazon, girding for battle. And yet what came next was frank and unequivocal. “In respect of your first demand...I came looking for inspiration for my art. Regarding the second, this portfolio—” she tapped her forefinger against it “—is full of that art. My erotic drawings, brought for comparison with classical interpretations.” Her eyes met his, burning darkly, not exasperated as he’d first thought, but infinitely brazen. “And as to the third question? Well, I sell those drawings for a great deal of money, Wilson, and I use a portion of that money to purchase the services of gentlemen of pleasure.”

What?

Wilson’s mouth dropped open. He knew he looked a fool, but didn’t care. He’d heard words, but they hadn’t made sense.

“Now may I go? I’m rather fatigued and I plan to take a rest before dinner.” When Adela shoved on his arm, Wilson stepped aside like an automaton, numbed. His hand slipped from the doorknob and she grasped the thing immediately, gave it a swift turn and wrenched open the door. Before he could speak, she’d swept right by him, her black skirts rustling as she went.

He was still frowning when she disappeared around the corner of the landing, a dark flash, gone again.

Gentlemen of pleasure?

There was no mental box he could seem to fit that in.

Wilson Ruffington couldn’t frame a rational thought.

6

Why, oh Why, oh Why?

“Idiot! Nincompoop! Why, oh why, oh why?”

Adela hurtled into the bedroom she’d been assigned, flung herself and her portfolio on the bed and pummeled the mattress with her fists, gasping for breath. Her mind was a whirl and it was hard to breathe. Corsets weren’t suited to wearing under pursuit...or in times of high stress and anxiety.

What have I done? I must be deranged. Gone quite mad.

Wilson had been on her tail within moments. He wasn’t a man to be nonplussed for long. But in a stroke of blind luck, Adela had escaped him. She’d ducked into a water closet on the landing round the corner, and had been able to close and lock the door with barely a sound.

Thirty seconds later, there’d been a wild thumping on the panel.

“Della! Are you in there? Come out this instant. I want to talk to you.”

Torn between silence and telling him to go and take a running jump into Lord Rayworth’s lily pond, she’d had a sudden inspired flash. Adopting a strangled, amateur dramatics voice, she’d called out in the quavering tones of an elderly dowager, “Kindly go away and stop hammering on this door, young man! Such impertinence!”

Ten long seconds had ticked by in silence, but eventually his footsteps had retreated. A few minutes later, still half expecting him to pounce on her, Adela had inched open the door, and on finding the coast clear, run pell-mell for her room.

You’ve done it again, Wilson Ruffington! Addled my wits... No sooner do I set eyes on you than I turn into an imbecile and a wanton, and let slip the very last secret that anyone should be privy to, least of all you.

Still breathing hard, Adela sprang up and stomped back to the door to turn the key. If he didn’t already know which room she’d been given, it wouldn’t take Wilson long to find out, and she needed time alone...to assess the degree of damage she’d done.

If only Sofia or Beatrice were here! Adela could have opened her heart to either one, as both were women of emotional wisdom and experience, and she was confident they’d have words of advice for her. But neither of her two dearest friends moved in this particular set, and this new Wilson dilemma wasn’t something she could discuss with anyone else. Neither her mother nor Sybil must ever know her darkest secrets, and though Marguerite was sensible and intelligent, she was simply too young to share matters of sex with.

Oh, it was all such a mess of complication. This situation had been difficult to begin with—Ruffingtons set at odds with each other by her grandfather, the damned Old Curmudgeon who had no time for women.

But now she’d made it insupportable with her own foolish actions.

A bag of nervous energy, Adela marched across to the window and looked out, although she hung back behind the curtains in case Wilson had taken it into his head to go outside. If he glanced up and saw her, he’d know which room was hers.

There was no sign of an eccentric figure with wild dark hair and a ridiculous dressing gown, but the gardens, the lush green lawns and the topiary were all very easy on the eye. The house itself was a bit of a sprawl, but outside all of nature was kept in order, groomed and harmonious. Some of the house party were out there on the lawn below her window, lounging in white painted garden chairs, consuming lemonade and engaging in small talk. Some sheltered beneath gaily striped umbrellas; others basked in the sun’s rays. All appeared very innocent, relaxed in ambience, yet observing polite decorum.

But who’s tupping whom in secret? Surely I’m not the only one who’s been getting up to mischief.

Knowing something of house parties, Adela suspected there were any number of liaisons taking place beneath the conventional, convivial surface. But all looked normal and respectable out there, just as she’d planned to be before her encounter with Wilson. The only risks she took were confined to the discreet, luxurious confines of Sofia’s pleasure house.

Until now. One look at Wilson and Adela had turned into a lunatic. Ten minutes in his company and one shouting match later, she’d been putty in his hands. And the one delicious orgasm he’d bestowed on her hadn’t been nearly enough. Her body craved more. The very four-poster bed behind her seemed to cry out for his presence, and from the corner of her eye she seemed to see him lounging there against the pillows and the linens.

Damn you, you obnoxious beast, you’ve primed me like a pump and now I won’t be satisfied without a torrent!

Struggling, Adela focused on the view from the window. Her sister Sybil was fluttering around with a croquet mallet and being coy, flapping her eyelashes at her adoring swain, Lord Framley. At least that little exercise was going as planned, and Mama was clearly thrilled. The besotted lad’s aristocratic family was rolling in money, and so far nobody had raised any objection to him paying court to a virtually penniless young woman with no apparent prospects. If Sybil bagged him, it would alleviate a lot of worries.

Turning from Sybil, Adela frowned. There was another handsome male creating a source of disquiet. But in this case one she personally did not find attractive.

Her mother was flirting. Batting her eyelashes at Blair Devine, the young solicitor who she’d met at a small poetry soiree hosted by her old friend Lady Gresham. Adela wasn’t quite sure how interested her mother was in poetry, but Mama had apparently struck up a conversation with Devine, who Lady Gresham declared was “indispensable” for the discreet handling of small legal matters, and now the fellow seemed to have attached himself to the Ruffingtons. Adela didn’t begrudge her mother the pleasure of amusing male company, or a second chance of happiness for herself; after all, one of Papa’s last wishes was that his widow not be lonely forever. It was just her choice of male companion Adela found dubious, and she’d been a little disquieted when Mama had engineered an invitation for her favorite to this house party—Blair Devine was just a smidgen too sleek, too attentive. He set Adela’s teeth on edge, especially when he looked at her in a vaguely speculative fashion, too, as if debating whether to pursue her instead of her parent, and was trying to work out whether he could bring himself to court a rather plain spinster. Mama might be the older woman, but she’d been almost a child bride, a mother at seventeen, and she looked wonderful in black, mature yet vivacious.

What was the fellow up to? Dancing attendance on Mama. Offering her more lemonade, even as Adela watched, and inducing almost as much eyelash batting as Sybil was currently indulging in. There was something not quite pukka about Devine’s smooth, handsome style, even though he’d fit right in to the house party, and seemed to be on friendly terms already with a number of the other guests. His modus operandi wasn’t obvious, or particularly flashy, but it, and the man himself still bothered her. She’d tried to be polite to him, nevertheless, for Mama’s sake, as had her sisters. Sybil probably liked him, anyway, because she was amendable to all comers, especially good-looking young men, but Adela had sensed that Marguerite, their youngest, shared her own misgivings. The baby of the family was wise beyond her years, but luckily for her, a little too young for a potential match with Blair Devine.

Well, if you plan to direct your attentions to me eventually, sir, you can think again. I’d rather marry that accursed monster Wilson than you!

And back to Wilson again. Ever thus. Their cousin, both relative and nemesis. Mama swung wildly between poles where he was concerned. One day she heaped complaints upon him for being the unwitting recipient of their grandfather’s riches and title, in the absence of a closer male relative. The next, she hinted and wheedled and schemed, still deluding herself, despite Adela’s vociferous protests, that a marriage between her eldest daughter and the future Lord Millingford was both desirable and a strong possibility.

It will never occur, Mama. You would have done better to fling Sybil at him, or even Marguerite at a pinch. Not me.

But Sybil was interested only in dresses and hair ribbons and her handsome but rather dim Viscount Framley. She and Wilson were like two different species, who spoke different languages. Marguerite’s astute intellect was something that Wilson would probably admire, but she was still only thirteen years old.

Feeling as if her brain was whirling, Adela turned from the window again and began pulling what pins were left from her sorely disarranged coiffure. Her mother would most certainly have a “turn” if she discovered that Wilson had compromised her daughter, but she’d recover like lightning and be delirious with happiness if it meant there might be a marriage.

But I’ve been compromised these seven years, Mama. Much good it has done us.

Unable to settle, even though she was suddenly exhausted, Adela paced the room, touching familiar items brought from home as talismans: her hairbrush, a bottle of smelling salts, the little glass jar containing her favorite cold cream.

Curse the man, when he gave something, even the slightest hint, she always wanted more. Her body was racked with odd, unsettled sensations. Familiar ones. One she’d experienced within the hour. Ones she’d experienced, just as keenly, seven years ago.

Get out of my head, Wilson!

Impossible, though. He’d never left. Not really. The image she saw now was of the younger man, the provocative friend with whom she’d tramped through the willow wood at Ruffington Hall and taken that fateful dip in the river.

In those brief, halcyon days, Wilson had been simply a remote relative on a summer visit, one who just happened to be there at the same time as her family. He’d not been the heir to the family title then, not even close. With Papa still alive, and Mama young and healthy and eager for more offspring of their fond and uxorious union, a long-awaited brother for their three daughters had still been a strong possibility. And even with none forthcoming, another cousin, Henry, was next in line to be Lord Millingford.

But Adela had been fascinated, even enraptured by her blindingly brilliant cousin Wilson, by his beauty and his peculiarity both. On a hot day, they’d crept away from formal tea on the lawn, and the rather sedate and yawn-inducing tennis match being played by several of the guests.

And then her life as she’d known it had changed forever....

7

Seven Years Past

Ruffington Hall, Summer 1884

“Let’s go and take a splash in the river, eh, Della? Are you game?” Wilson had said, those silver-blue eyes of his glinting. “At least it’ll give you something new to draw.” He grinned, nodding at the portfolio she was carrying, that she always carried. She’d refused to show him her work, but knew he was determined to see it.

“What do you mean?” Adela ignored his remark about the portfolio, concentrating on Wilson’s challenge. She had a shrewd idea what he was really suggesting, with his “splash.” Wilson liked to be as shocking as he was clever. Already half in love with him, she couldn’t resist the challenge. She’d follow and to the devil with the consequences.

Low-hanging branches and ground-hugging brambles caught at her skirts as she trudged after Wilson through the wood, planning to catch hold of his dressing gown and slow him down if she could. She couldn’t imagine why he wore it, except to promote his image as an eccentric academic. For her own part—despite her mama’s frantic protests of impropriety—she’d left off her corset and her bustle and two of her petticoats. It was just too oppressive to be trussed up on a summer day, and being slight of build, she didn’t think anybody but her mother would be aware of the deficiency. Her white garden dress with its pretty green sash was so comfortable with fewer layers beneath, and it was much easier to sit without all that stupid paraphernalia beneath her skirt.

Not that white was ideal for an arboreal expedition. Mud quickly caked both her hem and her shoes, but the exhilaration of defying all chaperonage, and the dizzy, delicious feeling she always experienced in Wilson’s presence made it seem as if she were floating along the path behind him.

All she could think about was seeing him “splashing.” All she could hope was that he’d strip off his clothing to do it. She’d grown impatient with anatomy treatises and classical statuary. She wanted to draw a real man at last. And more...

“Slow down, Wilson. This path’s uneven and I’ll trip if we keep up this absurd pace. We don’t have to flee. Nobody noticed us leave, and I doubt that anyone’s missed us yet.”

Wilson stopped short and Adela cannoned into him. Just as she’d feared, she tripped and lost her footing.

Strong arms caught her and held her, quelling any unconscious urge to struggle. Wilson was wild and unpredictable, yet hugged close against his body like this, she still felt safe. His chest was warm and firm where she leaned against it, and on touching the fine lawn of his loose white shirt, she discovered he wore no undergarment beneath.

“Steady on, Della.” There was a laugh in his voice, and it dawned on Adela that her touch had been more voracious than she’d realized. Nothing less than a fervent exploration of his musculature.

She shot back, nearly tripping again, but this time he caught her chastely by the arms. Her heart beat wildly and she wasn’t sure what she wanted. Wilson’s smug, twinkling eyes made her want to thump him with her fists, and yet do other things, too. Sensations surged through her body, ones she knew that a proper young woman must never admit to feeling.

But I’m not proper, and I’m not like other young women.

Or perhaps all her sex felt the same? And every woman was hiding passion beneath her layers and layers of petticoats?

“What is it, Della?” His silvery eyes narrowed, as if he were monitoring her very thoughts with his analytical scrutiny, but just as she was about to protest about his staring at her, he smiled and gave her a friendly little shake. “Come on, old thing. The river awaits and I’m dying for a dip. It’s so hot!”

“If you’re so hot, why are you wearing your dressing gown?” Adela aimed the question at his back as he turned and set off along the path again. Wilson just laughed and continued on ahead.

Between the trees, the glitter of sun on water was their goal, and the air felt fresher, less vegetal and moldy.

“Here we are,” Wilson cried as they burst forth out of the trees and into a little dell that hugged the edge of the river. It was secret and idyllic, the sort of place where fairies might peep out from among the water plants. The sort of place where wonders might occur.

“How beautiful!” There was magic enough without the fairies, though. A palpable excitement in the air, despite the superficial tranquility, as if the flowing water itself was generating energy. “I never knew about this spot.” It was true; she’d explored the grounds of Ruffington Hall before, escaping Mama, but never found this place. Trust Wilson to know it was here.

“Yes, it’s special, isn’t it?” His voice was quiet, and he sounded wistful. But when she turned to him, he was looking at her, a challenging expression on his face.

“Well, I think I shall do a little sketching,” Adela announced. She mustn’t let her cousin rattle her. Best to go calmly about her own business. But where to sit, wearing a gown of white, without getting mud or dust or plant stains upon it? She could hardly stand the whole time while she was drawing.

Wilson whipped off his dressing gown in a whirl of silk and set it down on the grass in a little patch of shade. “Better not to sit in full sunlight, Della. I’ve been reading some studies into the effect of sunlight on human tissue, and I believe long exposure may prove harmful to delicate complexions.” He patted the robe, making it flat for her. “Your skin is exceptionally smooth and fine, so you really should take the best care of it. I could formulate an emollient preparation for you, if you like?”

“Um...yes, thank you. That would be very kind....”

This was typical Wilson. A pretty compliment combined with scientific instruction. Or maybe he was just trying to butter her up? So he could take liberties.

Ah, but you want that, don’t you? The liberties...

The voice of wisdom jabbed at her. She knew what she wanted, and knew she was a fool to want it. Yet still she couldn’t suppress her yearning. She caught her breath when Wilson swiftly undid the buttons of his shirt, then whipped the thing off over his head.

“Right then, it’s a dip for me.” Flinging his shirt away, he revealed his bare chest and shoulders, so smooth and well shaped. Adela’s eyes skittered to the fastenings of his summer flannel trousers, and she wondered what lay beneath them. Was it drawers or just Wilson?

Her cousin laughed. As usual, he seemed to have guessed what she was thinking.

“You’ll have to wait and see.” Waggling his dark eyebrows at her, he threw himself down on the grass, just a foot or two away from her, and attacked the laces of his boots.

Adela applied herself to her portfolio, but even with the green bounty of the natural world around her, and a freshly sharpened pencil, the blank page remained unsullied. She was trying not to look at Wilson, and failing abjectly.

He flung away his boots and socks, then stood again. Turning directly toward her, in a blatant challenge, he slowly and teasingly unbuttoned his trousers and let them drop. Then laughed when Adela looked away.

Wilson was wearing drawers, but they were summer-weight ones, reaching only to his knees. Adela didn’t get much chance to admire their style, though, because before she could protest, he was slipping them off, too. She turned resolutely away from him and studied a small white flower growing a few inches from where she was sitting, a bloom of delicate beauty and frailty.

“Not interested in human anatomy, then?”

The temptation to look at him had the force of the fast-flowing stream beside them, and all its inevitability. Her neck ached from the effort of not swiveling in his direction. “I’m very interested in anatomy, just not yours, Wilson. I’m fully conversant with the male form. I’ve studied many great works of art.”

His laugh rang out, lusty and free. It was a happy sound, but it made her clench her teeth. She was always a source of amusement to him, and yet she couldn’t stop seeking his company.

“Oh, Della, Della, Della... Don’t you know that all the classical artists tend to err on the side of underestimation in certain male characteristics?”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

She was fighting, fighting, fighting now. Resisting what in her heart she knew she’d really come here for.

Fiddlesticks!

Trying not to seem at all concerned, she slowly turned in Wilson’s direction. Only to find that he was already at the riverbank and wading in, his back to her.

Drat the man!

His shoulders, his back and his bottom were glorious, though. Before the latter disappeared beneath the water, she admired the firm, tight musculature of his buttocks and the way it moved, propelling him forward. The white flower was forgotten, and she began drawing as fast as she could, her pencil flying, inspired. It was always like this when she found a subject that really enchanted her. She could work quickly, almost at lightning speed, the result forming not only on the paper, but etched into her memory as if on a photographic plate, ready to be retrieved at any time, reworked and adapted.

This was her great gift, and she knew that even if she never saw her cousin’s magnificent arse ever again, she would still be able to draw it over and over, whenever she wanted to.

It took but a few moments to complete the study. Naked Wilson, his firm backside, his well-shaped torso, his dark hair, silky and tousled down the back of his neck. Smiling, she flipped over the page and drew another impression, this time changing the angle, making the view more a profile. But she didn’t attempt to portray his genitalia. Somehow it didn’t seem right, in case she shortchanged him.

“Why don’t you come on in, Della? The water’s deliciously refreshing. A swim will do you good.” He half turned, smiling at her over his bare shoulder. “Can you swim?”

“Indeed I can. I’ve bathed in the sea and I found it most invigorating. And even with the heavy drag of my bathing dress, I quickly took to the strokes.”

Wilson cocked his head to one side. He looked impressed. “Well, then, you’ll find it even easier and much more pleasant if you swim naked.”

“Wilson, you really do and say the most absurd things. I can’t possibly take my clothes off in front of you. It’s completely improper and I don’t know why you would even suggest it.”

Even as she spoke the words, she almost choked on her own hypocrisy. She’d come here to see, think and do improper things. That was her nature. She’d already left off half her underpinnings, knowing full well it was daring and scandalous and would give Mama an apoplectic fit if she ever found out.

“I don’t think you care about propriety, Della,” said Wilson, his voice low and challenging as he spun around in the flowing stream and approached the bank again.

I should turn. I should turn.

But Adela didn’t. She watched the point where Wilson’s body met the water, holding steady as his loins breached the surface and all was exposed to her.

She blinked. Well, it didn’t seem as if that would go under one of those tiny fig leaves that adorned most classical statuary. Certainly not. His male appendage was sturdy, and had a cheeky, rather insolent look about it. Even as she stared, it gave a twitch, and she could swear it got plumper and longer.

Wilson gave a low chuckle as he stepped onto the bank. “I’m sorry. I’ve disappointed you, haven’t I? You were expecting a weapon of massive proportions.” Adela’s heart nearly stopped when he reached down and casually fondled himself...something that seemed to make his flesh expand even before her eyes. “But in my defense, the water is quite cold, and that always has the effect of making the male member shrink in order to protect itself.”

“It, um, looks perfectly adequate to me.” Her pencil settled on the paper, and almost of its own accord began sketching in the missing manly parts of her second drawing, before swiftly moving on to another depiction, this time of Wilson’s penis in magnificent isolation.

“Shall I pose for you?”

Adela’s heart thudded hard. Yes, indeed, she did want him to pose for her, but there were other things she wanted, too. Things that obsessed her more than ever now. Not only did she want to draw, she wanted to touch, to caress and to explore. She wanted to feel the reality of a man’s body, rather than just look at it and sketch it from a safe distance.

But if she told Wilson that, there would be no turning back. He was a man, and they were wont to make a yard of liberties out of an inch of compliance, because they couldn’t help themselves. Adela wasn’t sure if she wanted more than a foot.

And talking of inches, wasn’t he was bigger down there than before?

“Yes...please. Perhaps you could lie down over there?” She pointed to a patch of flattish turf a safe distance away. It was shaded by branches that dipped low, toward the river, and the play of light and shadow would afford an interesting texture.

That’s it. Concentrate on the technicalities. See him purely as a pleasing natural structure to be recorded.

Wilson shrugged and padded to the area she’d indicated. With a grace that nearly made her sigh aloud, he sank down and struck a pose, much like a modern Apollo taking his ease. Closing his eyes, he stretched back his arms, causing a stark tension in the muscles of his chest and abdomen. With one leg straight and one lifted, bent at the knee, he seemed to offer his manhood to her, its prominence magnified.

It’s just a pleasing natural structure.

Adela’s pencil raced again. She might never get another opportunity to draw a naked man from life. Even if she were lucky enough to find a husband soon, the gentleman in question might not want to lie around in the altogether to indulge her artistic whims.

Sketching almost without thinking, Adela frowned. No beaux were as yet on the horizon, and even if one hove into view, she wasn’t sure she wanted one who hadn’t got time to pose. From what she’d seen of her early marrying friends, marriage wasn’t the entirely desirable state that women were led to believe it was. Adela wasn’t at all excited by the idea of homemaking and entertaining and “supporting” her husband in all things. Or producing infant after infant. One or two would be a joy, and she was certainly very interested in the begetting side of the process, but her instincts were not at all maternal. Most people’s children were rather tiresome.

As all this was passing through part of her mind, another segment was recording and reproducing Wilson’s physique. And yet another portion was desperately wondering what his bare skin felt like to the touch, and how...how much bigger his penis was going to get. It was now eye-poppingly tumescent and pointing up at a robust angle.

“Yes, I’m afraid that can happen in the presence of beautiful women.”

He’d done that trick again. Read the thoughts and notions going through her mind.

“Can you not control it?” Adela’s pencil snapped. She was pressing on it too hard. Reaching into the portfolio and a little leather notch, she drew out a tiny knife and sharpened the point. The small activity was a respite. She had to concentrate in order not to cut her finger. While focusing on the blade she couldn’t look at Wilson’s burgeoning sex.

“Oh, I could if wanted to,” he replied airily. “I could apply myself to the never-ending conundrum that is pi, or tax my brain with one or two little theorems that are interesting me at the moment, and that would probably result in a gradual collapse of the offending organ....” The sharpening was finished, and Adela looked up again, to find him grinning at her. “But I don’t want to. It’s rather pleasant to be aroused.... I like being reminded that I’m male, and animal, and that I’m lusty.” Slowly, he ran a fingertip along his own length. “And I love the way it brings the roses to your cheeks.”

Adela drew in a breath, to calm herself. The sight of him fondling his own flesh did hot and peculiar things to her. She wanted him to do far more than simply touch. She wanted to know what happened if he just kept stroking and stroking. Having inveigled her way into her grandfather’s library—with Wilson’s help—and perused certain volumes, and listened to racy talk from certain wild girls at the ladies’ academy she’d attended...well, she was fully aware of what happened to men, and what they did with the result during the act of carnal congress.

But all that was purely theoretical. Actually observing the male phenomenon occur in front of her was making her quite giddy.

“Well, you might as well plunge back into the river to cool off, both yourself and your masculine appendage,” she said as briskly as she could, hoping to sound clinical and detached. “I’ve seen quite enough for now. I can draw whatever I need to from memory henceforward.”

“I rather like the idea of my erection being preserved forever in your mind’s eye. Every time I look at you from now on, I’ll be wondering if you’re thinking about my cock.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m drawing you as a life study, not thinking about your...your...”

“It’s called my cock, Della, and in the interest of art, and of science, I think you should touch it to ascertain its texture. It’ll assist you in your sketching.”

Would she even be able to sketch anything now? He’d got her all in a fluster. She’d come here with daring activities in mind, but faced with the moment of truth, she found her natural fears had resurfaced. Not sure what to do, she stole another glance at Wilson, trying not to let her eyes roam in a southerly direction.

Her cousin had that sympathetic expression on his face again. So unlike his usual blunt and arrogant imperiousness, the armor of his exceptional mind. He gave her a little smile that could be construed as an apology. As if he felt remorse for unsettling her.

“Yes, I think a dip is a good idea.” He rose, and Adela looked quickly away again. The way his cock bounced and swung made her face burn. “And for you, too, Della. If you like, I won’t look until you’re safely up to your chin in the water.”

“I’m not sure.” The water did look inviting, though, and it was such a warm day. Even in less underwear than usual, she felt oppressed, and envious of Wilson’s total lack of modesty and the way it allowed him to do whatever he wanted.

“You’ll enjoy it. Come on in.” Wilson was already wading back into the stream, and Adela felt a sense of loss as he moved away from her. Devil that he might be, she wanted to be close.

“Perhaps I can keep my chemise and drawers on.”

Wilson turned again, although fortunately, the organ that bothered her so much was now hidden beneath the surface. “Don’t be silly. You don’t want to go back to the house with soggy underpinnings, do you?”

Damn the man, he was back to goading again.

“Oh, very well, then!” Setting aside her portfolio, Adela swiftly unfastened the buttons of her boots, kicked them off and then sprang to her feet. Her heart pounding, she attacked the buttons down the front of her garments next, trying not to be hampered by the shaking of her fingers. With a nod, Wilson turned away as she shed the bodice of her dress.

“You can watch if you want. I don’t care!”

Why in heaven’s name did I say that?

“Very tempting, but I think you deserve some privacy, cousin. I’ve teased you far too much already.” With that, he waded out farther, his fine back disappearing beneath the water until only his head was showing. His shaggy black hair kissed the surface of the stream.

Infuriating beast!

Adela grappled with her clothing, muttering to herself. Wilson really was the most contrary creature she’d ever met, or could imagine meeting. He was so fickle, changing tack again and again, that she just didn’t know where she stood with him.

Buttons and ribbons and garters defied her. She tugged and wrenched. Wilson didn’t think that she dare unclothe herself before him, but she would show him. She would show him, indeed, show him everything. But she had to do it before her nerve failed her.

Though the day was warm, she shivered as she unveiled her skin. It was the strangest sensation to be naked in the open air. She’d only ever undressed to bathe before, in the privacy of her bedroom or the bathroom. Even when she’d swum in the sea, she’d disrobed in the safely of the bathing machine, and come out in a voluminous costume. Now, a light breeze flowed over her bare skin, like zephyr’s caress. Her nipples had already firmed, but the sense of exposure made them tingle in a way that was half pain, half pleasure.

Out in the water, she saw Wilson turn his head. Was he looking at her even though he’d said he wouldn’t? She wouldn’t be at all surprised.... But she resisted the urge to try and cover herself with arms and hands. Let him see! Let him know she wasn’t afraid of him! Padding across the turf, she made for the water’s edge, her body still in conflict, incompatible compulsions at war. But still she managed to keep her arms at her side.

“Good grief!”

The flowing river was cold, despite the warm sunny day. The chill hit her like a blow, but she waded forward, clamping her jaws together to stop her teeth chattering.

“I did warn you it was cold,” said Wilson, cutting through the water toward her as she sank to shoulder level, almost in a state of shock.

“I thought you were just claiming that to excuse the small size of your organ,” she retorted, her voice half choked by the frigidity of the water.

“Touché,” replied Wilson, up close now. Very close indeed. Adela glanced down and realized that the water was unexpectedly clear, like crystal, and she could see every detail of his body.

As he must be able to see every detail of hers. The devil, he’d known this all along. He was almost flaunting himself, swaying in the water, making his penis move slowly. It seemed to have acclimatized itself to the temperature and was quite sizable.

“Shall we swim a little...get out of our depth?”

I’m already way out of my depth.

Wilson reached out beneath the water and took her hand, leading her into the deepest part of the stream.

The flow was erratic, faster here, and for a moment she was afraid of something other than her randy cousin. When she’d indulged in sea bathing, it had been in a sheltered cove, noted for its lack of currents and breakers. This stretch of the river was actually far more active.

As if sensing her fears, Wilson tightened his hold on her hand, and immediately she felt safe again. Well, safe from drowning. Of other hazards, she wasn’t so sure.

They swam around for a while, Wilson setting her free when she found her confidence, and Adela was quickly exhilarated by the sensations and the freedom. Water against her skin was even more seductive than air. It was like being embraced by cool silk that flowed everywhere, tantalizing her most sensitive zones. Her very soul seemed to open like a flower, subtly stimulated, not only by the water, but by the presence of her handsome, provocative companion with his probing silvery eyes and his strong, masculine body. She knew she would have to face up to both when they eventually left the stream again.

Invigorating as the swim was, Adela knew she couldn’t stay in the river forever, so as she felt herself beginning to tire, she made for the bank. Not giving herself even a heartbeat’s hesitation, she climbed out of the water, trying to move as elegantly as she could.

Once on the shore again, she felt the cool breeze lick her skin, and began to shiver, her teeth chattering.

Oh, fiddle, how on earth am I going to dry myself? She’d have to use her petticoats, but then they would be damp when she put them on. Wonderful as her dip had been, second thoughts rushed in, in abundance.

The slosh of water as Wilson emerged, too, made her turn around, even though she’d not planned to. His eyes narrowed, and she knew he’d seen her shivering.

“Sit down on my dressing gown. I’ll dry you.”

“But—”

“No buts. Don’t be silly, woman.”

Adela did as she was told, and the moment she was settled, Wilson snatched up his white shirt and began rubbing her vigorously with it, massaging her skin and stimulating the flow of blood as well as drying her.

The sensation was delicious, warming to the senses and unexpectedly relaxing. Adela almost purred as her circulation heated and surged.

“Better?”

“Blissful!” She said it without thought. It was true, too, but a second later, dangerously revealing. Here she was, being handled by a man, with only a layer of fine cotton between his fingers and her body—and Wilson didn’t hold back; he was drying her everywhere. He rubbed the shirt over her breasts, the action slower and more circumspect, in respect of the more delicate nature of her anatomy there, but with his hands curved in a way that was cupping and caressing. Adela knew she should command him to stop, and tell him that she’d deal with those areas herself, thank you very much. But she couldn’t. She liked it. She liked it a lot. Coming up on her knees, pretending to investigate her bedraggled hair, and her half-collapsed chignon, she invited him to take further liberties.

Wilson doubled up the cloth of the shirt, slipped it between her thighs and began to rub it gently back and forth.

Adela grabbed his shoulder. Their eyes met. The shirt moved slowly, but he was silently asking the question, Shall I stop?

This was scandalous. Forbidden. Beyond daring. Yet so heavenly that Adela could not resist. She dug her nails into Wilson’s bare shoulder and let out a small, indistinct sound of assent.

The soft, slightly damp cloth molded to her sex, and she could feel his fingers through it. They sought and found her most sensitive spot, dividing her curls. He moved beside her to gain better purchase, his other hand settling on the small of her back. Adela bore down, rocking now, and moaning at the heavy, gathering sensation. She knew what it was. The books in her grandfather’s library said very little about a woman’s side of things, but her faster classmates at the ladies’ collegiate had seemed to know all of it, and their racy talk fired her to experiment. The pleasure she’d experienced had been intense and shocking, and even though the whispers at the collegiate had implied it was a wicked sin, and perverse, Adela didn’t think so. Something so lovely couldn’t be all that bad.

And it wasn’t bad now. It was wonderful. Even though she was taking the most enormous risk, letting her disreputable and infuriating cousin do it to her.

“Shall I stop?”

The words shocked her far more than Wilson’s touch ever could. “No,” she managed to reply, her voice cracking as she threw her arms around his neck, holding him in a death grip. Nothing was going to stop her reaching her goal, not even Wilson’s conscience and second thoughts. She nearly throttled him when he withdrew his hand, but it was only to toss away the now redundant shirt. A breath later, his bare hand replaced it in the niche between her thighs.

The exquisite artistry of Wilson’s fingertips rubbing and circling her clitoris was too much. She was too excited. Almost immediately her core began to ripple and clench, and, with breathless pleasure surging, she spent. Her arms tightened around him, and another time, she might have realized she was probably hurting him, but all she wanted now was to keep him and his divine hand closer than close. She buried her face in his neck to muffle her cry of release.

Her entire body was hot now, fired by her orgasm, but somehow what she’d felt still wasn’t enough. There had been other matters discussed at the collegiate, and despite the dangers, Adela would not be denied. She wanted more.

Falling back onto Wilson’s dressing gown, she hauled him down with her, feeling a triumphant rush of desire as his body pressed against hers. He was hard as iron, his member shoving against her belly.

This was uncharted territory, a world away from girlish dreams of romance, and her imaginings of what the matrimonial embrace might be like. This was darkness and danger on a brilliant summer’s day, and the rebel in her reached out for the risks...and for Wilson’s sturdy cock. He groaned as she folded her fingers around him. She wasn’t quite sure what to do, but it seemed to her that a man was sensitive in this particular area, and to treat him like a pump handle might be more painful than pleasurable. With a light grip and a slow stroke, she began to caress him, half her mind still amazed at what was happening.

“Oh, Della, Della, you have the touch of a courtesan,” he gasped, his hips pushing in time to her fondling. Adela faltered, doubting for a moment. Did she want to be compared to a light o’ love? And what did Wilson know about courtesans, anyway?

“Oh, don’t stop, darling girl, your caress feels wonderful. You have magical hands.... It must be the artist in you.”

Flatterer.

She was glad to please him, though. He’d certainly pleased her, and she was all for fair play, for gratitude expressed. But it was more than that. The way Wilson’s cock felt to her hand was intriguing, fascinating and delightful. It almost seemed like a discreet living entity of itself, rather than a part of him. It was the very essence of life, and of man.

He made strange noises. Rough groans and grunts, muttered words, some of them very crude, but raw and exciting. The very sound of his voice was a reciprocal caress, stirring her without even touching her.

“That’s it, Della...that’s it...bring me off....” The words were harsh, but she sensed he was still trying to contain himself and not shock her or grab at the pleasures her flesh represented to him. Did he think she was afraid? Did he think she was cold and indifferent, now that she’d had her release? Well, he was wrong. Her appetite had only just begun to stir.

Adela pushed her body against Wilson’s even as she played with his cock. She was on fire again, her belly alive with a gnawing hunger, and emptiness for which there was only one answer. It was madness to give in to the urge. Her rational mind knew that, but good sense and logic were being washed away by a force as inevitable as the flowing stream.

She took a firmer hold on Wilson’s erection and, parting her legs, drew him to her, wiggling around until she was right beneath him, open and ready.

“Della! What are you doing? We can’t do this!”

Adela’s eyes shot open and she looked up into Wilson’s. At their center they were black as night, giving lie to his words, just as his cock did. He wanted her, he hungered for her, but the learned man, versed in physiology and biology, was fighting to remain in control...and yet losing, in the same way her own wits were addled.

Yes, we can! I can’t bear it if we don’t!

She didn’t speak. She wasn’t capable of it. But she knew Wilson understood her completely.

“Oh, Della, Della,” he gasped again, moving into position. “I adore you, you are...you are... Oh, God, Della, you are perfect...so perfect.”

So are you! And so...big.

The head of Wilson’s cock seemed to know its way to the very quick of her, and pressing against her entrance, it felt huge and hot and rounded. Much too big to enter, surely? He pushed a little harder, and then, clearly feeling the resistance, attempted to pull back.

“No! Don’t you dare deny me!” As her hands clasped her cousin’s firm bottom, Adela was stunned by the sound of her own voice. It was that of an entirely different woman, an Amazon, an imperious goddess, not to be gainsaid or thwarted.

Above her, Wilson blinked, as if he was just as astounded as she, then dark fire blazed in his eyes, the devil answering her.

“Very well,” he growled, adjusting his position again, taking weight on his elbow and reaching down between them to nudge his cock to the sweetest spot with his fingers. His touch there again made Adela whimper, the sensation was so divinely lewd. She bucked her hips at him, interfering with his aim, yet unable to control her own body.

“Stay still! I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t care. Just do it! Just fuck me!”

Wilson’s body jolted as if the sound of the forbidden word on her lips was a lash of raw energy. His hips jerked, shoving the rounded tip of his cock against her, right at her entrance. Adela’s fingers tightened of their own accord on the firm rounds of his bottom, more to quell her own hesitation than to scotch his.

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