Portia Da Costa (22 page)

Still plunged into her, he adjusted their positions on the chest. Adela gripped harder, for dear life, her inner muscles already beginning to flutter, the bright pennants of orgasm unfurling as Wilson grabbed her by the haunch with his left hand, and with his other, reached beneath, twisting his wrist, to find her clitoris.

Adela squealed, racked by great wrenching waves of agonized pleasure, her spirit leaping from the highest place into a tumbling, ecstatic fall. Across her back, Wilson fell, too, collapsing upon her, assaulting the air with a string of oaths as his hips jerked and hammered.

“
Now
you’re mine,” he cried, his voice cracking and barely recognizable.

Losing her senses, Adela didn’t have the strength or wits to argue. In that instant, being his was all she wanted.

17

Wilson’s Fait Accompli

“Don’t come in. I don’t feel equipped to explain your presence to Mama right now. She’ll want to know how I came to arrive home in a carriage with you, when I set off for a meeting of the Ladies’ Sewing Circle.”

It seemed cruel, brushing him off like this, but it would be too uncomfortable to explain him to her mother. Especially as Adela wasn’t sure she could explain what she’d been about even to herself.

“If you wish.” Wilson’s low voice was sober, but the way he played with the brim of his top hat betrayed his inner tension. The fact that he had one with him seemed to indicate something amiss in itself. He looked entirely ill at ease so conventionally dressed, even though his fine frock coat, surprisingly subdued waistcoat and small, neat bow tie became him well.

“I’m sorry, Wilson. But you know Mama. Even if there was a reason for you to be delivering me home at this hour, she’d still make far too much of it.” It was Adela’s turn to fidget, fingering the handle of the small carpetbag that contained her precious portfolio.

After they’d coupled, Wilson had held out the portfolio to her, free and clear, while she was still naked, crouched on the sofa in a large red blanket he’d draped around her in a strangely tender gesture.

In fact, he’d been solicitous in the extreme, swathing her in the blanket, bringing her brandy, smoothing her hair back from her face as if she’d suffered some terrible shock or been rescued from a disaster at sea. He’d even winced when she’d grimaced from the lingering soreness in her buttocks. And he’d done all this while strolling round his spacious workroom stark naked himself.

Afterward, he’d retrieved her clothing and escorted her to an impressively modern and well-appointed bathroom and lavatory. Everything in Wilson’s home employed the latest technological development, and some features, she suspected, did not exist elsewhere. He’d run hot water from a miraculously efficient system for her bath, providing a full tub of heavenly soothing heat in which to wallow. Then, when she’d returned to the workroom to take her leave, he’d plied her with orange pekoe tea and an excellent seed cake, this reviver presumably prepared by his own hand, if his servants had all taken advantage of their unexpected liberty. At least she sincerely hoped that was the case, because the idea that some lingering servant, especially the smoothly efficient Teale, might have heard all the screaming and shouting and carrying on she’d done was simply unthinkable.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Wilson said more gently now, favoring her with a slight, crooked smile. “A visit from me will only complicate matters.”

But as they drew up before her house, perhaps it was too late, anyway. Mama was bound to be in a state of high anxiety, and looking out of the window for her. It was six o’clock and Adela had gone out at half past one.

“Don’t get out. Let the coachman help me down. Mama’s going to be on watch for my return.”

“Very well.”

It seemed strange that they could hardly speak to each other, but no words could encapsulate Adela’s feelings, and even Wilson, who could segregate his emotions with glacial ease, seemed affected much the same. She’d never traveled, and had never experienced a tropical cyclone or other fierce wonder of the weather, but in the aftermath of such a phenomenon, one must experience the same state of stunned incomprehension she was in now, Adela decided.

It’s like I’ve been to heaven—and hell—and back again.

If only Wilson had never been at the Rayworths’ house party. How much simpler life would be now.

And how boring and insipid, too, caprices at Sofia’s house of pleasure notwithstanding. Adela couldn’t seem to remember a single thing that had ever taken place there...while her mind had recorded every word, every gesture, every breath that Wilson had taken back in his workroom.

His caresses and the feel of his cock were indelible brands, imprinted on her far more deeply even than the heat of that spanking.

But now she must return to her normal life. Normal but changed. Even if she never fucked Wilson again, she still wouldn’t turn to Yuri or Clarence in his stead. Sweet as they were, virile as they were, they could no longer satisfy her heart.

“Shall we see each other again?”

The tentative quality of Wilson’s voice was unsettling. For a capricious, arrogant, domineering man, it echoed oddly, like the plea of a lost and lonely boy.

“I’m not sure that’s wise.” She had the portfolio now. There was no reason.

“A letter, then? I’ll send you a letter.” More confident now, more her familiar Wilson.

Adela swallowed, at a loss to imagine what he’d write. It would probably be some lascivious screed to rival, or surpass, anything in
Divertissements.
Or alternatively, a treatise on the more esoteric properties of steel, with a few words of light regard appended as an afterthought. Wilson simply couldn’t be normal. “Um...yes. Yes, of course. That would be pleasant.”

This stilted conversation was too painful. She rapped on the door and the coachman let her out. Wilson ran his hand down the back of her arm, but true to his word, didn’t follow her from the carriage. And Adela didn’t look back as she ran to the front door of her home and let herself in, not even waiting to hear the noise of the coachman resuming his seat and the carriage pulling away.

Inside, there was no time to even draw breath. As Adela removed her hat and handed her gloves to Minnie, the parlor maid, her mother swirled into the entrance hall to meet her, all aflutter, swathed in several shawls and clutching her handkerchief.

“Della! Good heavens, where have you been all this time? I’ve been worried to the point of prostration.” Mama’s eyes looked red, as if she’d been crying, and Adela felt a spear of guilt pierce her. Her mother
did
care for her, and worry about her, despite her apparent preference for Sybil. It was just that the love was quieter, and more shadowed.

“I sent round to Mrs. Ritchie’s, and to Mrs. Brigstock’s, but they hadn’t seen you at all. I even sent a note round to Mme Chamfleur...even though you know I think that woman isn’t quite respectable.” Mama stood, mangling her handkerchief, compounding Adela’s guilt.

“Now, now, Mama, Sofia is a splendid woman and very kind, and her house in Cheveley Street is perfectly respectable.” Which was completely true...because the man brothel was situated in a large and rather fine house in Hampstead that actually belonged to her husband, Monsieur Ambrose Chamfleur. “Come along, let’s take some tea. You must settle down and not worry so about me, you know. I’m twenty-five, Mama, not a silly romantic chit like Sybil, bless her heart. I simply decided to pay a call on a different friend while I was out. I’m sorry, I know I should have sent round a note with a servant.”

“What friend? What friend, Della?” demanded Mama, as Adela hustled her into the parlor, having requested Minnie bring them tea.

What friend indeed? Was Wilson even her friend? Yes, he was her distant cousin, and a man who’d possessed her body twice in her life now, but
friend
was such a small, inadequate word for what he was.

“Yes, what friend?” inquired Sybil, looking up from a copy of the
Young Ladies’ Journal.
Even Marguerite looked interested for a moment, although she returned almost immediately to her book.

“Not someone you know...but very, um, very respectable. Someone interested in art and anxious to show me a new acquisition.”

Lies and avoidance. How was she going to talk herself out of this one? The guilt piled up. And not for what she’d done with Wilson. No, that seemed beyond all consideration of desire or respectability, of right or wrong. It was the fibbing to Mama and to Sybil that made Adela feel hot and uncomfortable. Not to mention the fact that she suddenly realized she’d never even asked Wilson specifically about the letters. She hadn’t really considered it possible that he’d taken those, as well, but with his powers of observation, and insatiable curiosity, he might have been able to offer some theory as to their whereabouts. Moreover, his deductive skills would have been useful in solving the dilemma.

Both Mama and Sybil opened their mouths to continue the inquisition, but there was a rap at the door. Surely not the tea already? Minnie was quick and efficient, but nobody could get down to the kitchen, assemble the tea things, brew the pot and get back up to the parlor in barely moments.

Minnie entered the room again, sans tea and looking flustered.

“Mr. Wilson Ruffington to see you, ma’am.” She held out a card on her little silver salver, but it was immediately made redundant when Wilson strode into the room, right on her heels.

“Wilson, how delightful to see you again so soon! To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” Suddenly beaming, Mama held out her hand.

Adela was glad she was sitting down, because if it were otherwise, she would have had to flop into a chair. What was Wilson doing here? Had the carriage moved even one inch from the pavement outside the house?

You scheming devil, what are you up to now? What deviousness is this?

Wilson had dispensed with his hat and gloves and cane, leaving him still looking extraordinarily sartorial. His lean form in his dark and sober suit was drawing admiring glances from both Sybil and Marguerite, and Mama looked as if she was about to leap up and shower him in kisses.

Adela just wanted him to go. As soon as possible. She knew him, and this could only end in some kind of disaster.

“I won’t prevaricate, Mrs. Ruffington. I’ll get straight to the heart of my intentions.” Like some continental courtier, he swept up Mama’s proffered hand and dusted a kiss upon it. Then he turned to Adela, with a melee of dangerous emotions in his eyes. Humor. A strange excitement. Masculine triumph.

No! Please no!

She suddenly knew exactly what he was going to say, and silently exhorted him not to. It was incomprehensible, but she knew, she knew....

But it was too late; he was reaching for her hand now.

“I should like to ask for Adela’s hand in marriage. It would make me the happiest man in the world if you’d give us your blessing, Mrs. Ruffington.”

The room instantly became a chaos of excited voices. Mama almost shrieked and bounced up from her chair like a spring lamb. “My dear Wilson, this is such a surprise. But a wonderful one. I’m quite overcome!” Overcome or not, she wrapped her newly prospective son-in-law in a hug that was considerably more uninhibited than ladylike. “Of course you have my blessing, dear boy, of course.”

But what about my blessing, Wilson? You’ve presented me with a fait accompli.

Adela sat in silence. It was like being immobilized in the eye of a vortex. Mama, Sybil, and even Marguerite—who’d dropped her book in surprise—were all chattering to each other and to Wilson, but to Adela the words were jumbled noise, making no sense whatsoever. The only thing that did make sense was Wilson’s gaze upon her, his silver-gray eyes focused on her alone, even though he was surrounded by, and conversing with, three other females.

“Della, Della, Della...I never realized. This is the most wonderful news!” It was Adela’s turn to be hugged by her parent now, as if Mama had finally remembered her presence in the room. “You are such a sly one, my darling, so clever. But believe me, you’ve made me happier than you can possibly imagine.”

In the midst of her elation, Mrs. Ruffington suddenly looked deadly serious for about half a second, and Adela’s heart plummeted as she recognized the clang of the shutting gate.
This,
this ruse or whatever it was of Wilson’s, was the answer to all Mama’s prayers. A greater prize even than a potentially noble marriage for Sybil. A solid alliance with Wilson would mean the end of fear of poverty and being cast out in the cold. The happy return to the female Ruffington line of all that had seemed lost by Mama’s inability to produce a male heir.

Mama’s dream had come true, and thus, there was no escape. And even though Adela had no idea of Wilson’s real motivation for wanting to marry her, she prayed, for Mama’s sake, that it wasn’t just some capricious trick on his part. It would certainly crush her parent for good and all if he was merely playing out some cold experiment in human response and behavior, and planning to snatch back the proposal as suddenly as it had been proffered.

But even if his request was bona fide, and exactly what it seemed, the enormity of what lay ahead made Adela’s blood sink from her head, and giddiness engulf her.

“Dearest, are you all right?”

It was Wilson’s voice that brought back her wits. As if part of some elaborate dance, Mama had vacated her place on the sofa, and surrendered it to Wilson, so he could take his place as the dominant male of their small pack, seated at his chosen mate’s side.

His hands felt hot as fire around hers, and Adela realized that was because her skin was ice-cold, from genuine shock.

“Yes, thank you,
dearest,
” she said pointedly, rallying herself. This was no time to turn into Mama or Sybil, and succumb to the vapors. She needed all her faculties about her now. In fact, she’d need all her faculties around her for the rest of her life if she was to deal with a creature like Wilson on a daily basis. “I’m quite well. Just a little taken aback...I thought that we weren’t going to reveal our happy news for a little while yet.”

Wilson chafed her hands in his, clearly knowing she was not precisely well. His eyes were smiling, but a little narrowed. He nodded as if he were acknowledging and applauding her quick uptake and the way she’d resisted the urge to protest, make a scene, or possibly even strike him.

“Ah, you know me, darling Della. I’m ever impatient.” His eyes glittered like pale blue steel fresh from the furnace, still sparking. “I just can’t wait to have you for my own.”

The word
again
seemed to sound between them like a bell.

Mama was still burbling at them, but Adela wasn’t taking any of it in; she could register only the touch of Wilson’s fingers, and the look in his eyes. He appeared so confident, so assured of what he was doing, and yet somehow, despite the fire, did she detect the merest hint of shock in his expression, too?