Diamonds in the Rough

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.