Portia Da Costa (26 page)

Still gripping his sex, Wilson gave her a searching glance, his own face suddenly a chiaroscuro of emotion. Questioning. Even confused.

“Do you want a child? I have French letters a-plenty, and I’ll use them if you wish.... I don’t want to compel you into something you might not want. At least not want yet...”

Adela’s mind seemed to split, becoming both the lusty woman yearning to be fucked, and cooler dispassionate observer, considering the future and the consequences of their actions. If this sudden marriage was to be brief, and to end in a way as convenient as possible when the time came, it wouldn’t be fair on a child, or children. In the very pit of her soul, she knew that she would love and adore and nurture any infant of Wilson’s, but even though she knew him perhaps better than anybody, she wasn’t sure he’d feel the same. Fatherhood required responsibility, and she wasn’t convinced that was in his basic nature.

Yet she didn’t want to hurt him by rejecting his seed.

She opened her mouth to form an answer, but he anticipated her.

“Shall we wait awhile? Not rush? We have choices and a condition of freedom here that many husbands and wives don’t even consider. Let’s use our enlightenment to our advantage, and choose the right time.”

He looked calm, at least superficially at ease with his suggestion. Or as at ease as any male could be, sporting such a stupendous erection.

“I agree, husband, I agree.” The question had arisen, and was now dealt with. Adela let the little portal to reason and debate in her mind close. All that remained was her desire, the requirements of her body, and yes, a wish to grant Wilson all the pleasure he’d given her. “Now come along! I want you. Kindly enrobe that magnificent staff you’ve been waving about for goodness knows how long, and put it to use.”

Wilson laughed, reached into the drawer and drew out the tin of French letters that had been awaiting her decision. Within seconds, he was appropriately clad.

Leaning over her, he whispered, “Would you believe that I was thinking about this moment as we stood before the altar? It’s a wonder the Lord didn’t strike me with a bolt of thunder for disrespecting Him in His house.”

It was Adela’s turn to laugh. Certain thoughts had passed through her mind, too, and she’d welcomed them. They helped to banish others, ones about her and Wilson, and also other people. They threatened to rear up now, but the sensation of her husband’s warm, skillful hands running up and down her flanks made them retreat. There would be another time for vexing questions, and perhaps she’d seek his counsel about them.

“I’m sure the Lord will forgive you. After all, you were only anticipating the act of ‘worshipping my body’ as specified in the ceremony.” She glanced down at his cock, in its ingenious coat of rubber. “But didn’t our friend there cause you some, um, difficulties?”

“Indeed he did, for a moment or two.” Rocking his hips, Wilson pressed his friend against her inner thigh, right up against her
motte.
“But I was able to distract my mind by considering Fermat’s great theorem until he subsided somewhat.” Wilson nudged again, pressing harder. “But I doubt that anyone would have been looking at such a poor shade as me standing beside the brilliant beauty of my new wife.”

Adela opened her mouth, but Wilson laid his hand across it. “I’ll hear no protestations to the contrary. One thing we must agree on from now forward, if we are to live together amenably. There must be no denials of your beauty, do you understand me?”

Could it be true?
Was
she beautiful? She’d told herself for so long that her nose and her complexion were flaws in the eyes of all observers, but Wilson’s words and the testament of his rampant cock were persuasive.

Perhaps not a classic beauty...but beauty of a different kind, maybe?

“I’m right, aren’t I?” said Wilson, his mouth against her ear. As ever, it was as if he’d heard her very thoughts.

Adela nodded.

“Finally! Now let me get on with fucking you, will you?”

Her lips moving against his hand, she said, “What on earth is stopping you then?”

With a grunt of satisfaction, Wilson set about his task, settling himself between her thighs and greeting her sex with the tip of his cock. Resting on one elbow, he reached down and positioned himself more accurately, pausing in his efforts only to circle his thumb over her clitoris again.

“Oh, yes, Wilson, please... Please, I want you.”

“Then have me, Della. Have me.” He pushed in deep, the progress sleek and smooth and measured.

Adela rattled the bedstead, straining against the sash. “Release me! Let me hold you! I can’t bear not to hold you!”

Wilson’s eyes widened, his expression wild and unfocused, but he reached up and freed her, manipulating his clever knots in a trice. Could he read her mind, even now? Feel the great need in her, the unstoppable urge to be closer than close, even while they were joined?

Oh, Wilson, Wilson, Wilson...it’s no good. I can’t deny it.

Flinging her liberated arms around him, she buried her face in his neck, kissing him, kissing him furiously, tasting him and nipping at him, even as his strong hips pumped and his cock plunged into her.

I love you, Wilson. I love you. I know you’re a strange, unusual, perverse man, and even if you like me, you don’t really love me. But I still love you.

His hands slid beneath her body, gripping her bottom, clasping her ever closer, as if he were trying to climb inside her soul even as she yearned to climb inside his. She tilted her hips, trying to help him, bringing her knees right up and looping her ankles at the small of his back, arching against him.

They thrust and thrust against each other. Adela matched her ferocity with his, beating herself upon the rocks of his passion, taking all and giving all. If this physical union was the closest they could ever be, she would accept that, and revel in it as a rare gift not even always given to those that loved.

“Yes, oh, yes, sweet Jesu, yes!” she cried, gripped by a crisis so intense, her senses wavered. With her body pulsing and clenching around him, she ground her teeth, angry with herself all of a sudden for not being able to hold off and spend at the very same instant as him.

“Yes, my dear wife, yes...take your pleasure, take it!” Wilson growled, his voice muffled by her hair where he buried his mouth in it, kissing as hungrily as she’d kissed him.

Adela’s heart turned over, even as she soared again. Despite all their differences, in this he was unselfish and caring. He seemed to give a far higher priority to her pleasure than his own.

Frenzied, she flexed against him again, squeezing him within as she embraced and clutched at him without. And he rewarded her with a great cry and a furious hammering of his hips.

In a great chaos of movement, and of tears, and heavenly bliss, they did this time, in the very same instant, spend together.

21

A Lucrative Little Matter

Blair Devine’s mouth thinned as he toyed with the pink ribbon that tied the plump bundle of letters together. He hated pink. A young lady who he’d once courted had been very fond of pink. And she’d looked very fine in it on the day she’d informed him she did not wish to see him anymore, having heard that the bequest he’d been hoping for had eluded him.

But this could still be a lucrative little matter, and he deserved some recompense. He’d wasted enough hours with those tedious Ruffington women already, and his grand scheme for them was now scuppered, alas. Thanks to an alliance that he simply hadn’t seen coming.

He wrenched at the pink ribbon, and it flew free, sending the little envelopes scattering over his desk.

Fucking hell, this affair could have been so much more than just a handy bit of blackmail. With certain other items in the safe behind him, he could have had millions in his grasp, and no further need for leveraging people over a few rude letters. Although he might have done that just the same, for entertainment.

He clenched his fist. It was either that or tear the valuable letters to bits in exasperation. Damn that upstart Wilson Ruffington. That arrogant clever devil had thrown a spanner in the works of Blair’s grander scheme, by marrying his crook-nosed “cousin” Adela.

He’d had it all worked out. He’d discredit Wilson Ruffington as the legitimate heir of Lord Millingford—he had the means to do it now—and then, in the absence of another living male heir, the old miser would have to settle his millions on his eldest granddaughter, whom Blair would have married in the meantime. Millingford wasn’t keen on women—he was famous for that—but he’d rather leave his pile to a Ruffington woman than to no Ruffington at all.

But of course, all that was out the window now, before he’d even had the chance to start romancing Adela. Wilson Ruffington, arrogant, eccentric and wealthy in his own right, would get his paws on Lord Millingford’s vast fortune now, anyway, because
he
was suddenly and very conveniently married to its most likely recipient.

Spotting a few choice phrases in the letter in front of him, Blair Devine smiled again. He’d never been a man to sulk over lost opportunities. Some other rich plum would drop into his lap, he was sure of it. He was already eyeing another prospect, the wealthy widow of a northern rail baron this time, whose money was all her own, dependent on no one. Well, it would be until Blair married her and relieved her of control of it.

His smile widened and he felt much better about the whole Ruffington business. The big prize there had slipped out of reach, but there was still a nice little income to be got from them to tide him over. And this first letter was proving most tasty. That girl Sybil had a rare, lickerish tongue on her, and writing in this cast to some less than scholarly swain, her language was quite basic. “Ooh, it was lovely when you touched my puss,” indeed? What would her family pay to ensure that that choice sentiment didn’t get into the hands of her fiancé’s notoriously unbending patrician father?

Some Ruffington or other would have to shell out for these, and the funds would ultimately come from Wilson, Blair supposed. Or maybe there was some other prize his imaginary “client” might ask for?

The diamonds, perhaps? He had to admit they’d looked very fine on Adela at her wedding. They’d almost made her look beautiful. Almost made him think that a marriage to her might have been much more amenable than just a bounteous source of income, and a few quick fucks to get her with child.

Why couldn’t
she
have written some letters? Given him some leverage to compel her to marry him?

Blair had often wondered if Adela had a secret. Sometimes, just sometimes there’d been a look in her eye, a hint of something that stirred his cock, despite her scrawny silhouette, her broken nose and her imperfect skin.

But now it turned out that she’d always been just exactly what she seemed, a respectable and less than pretty spinster who’d spent her time in drawing, and chattering at her Sewing Circle, and who’d disdained even the very few males who bothered to make advances...because all the time, she’d been in love with her strange, arrogant cousin.

Well, enjoy him, Mrs. Ruffington, enjoy him. I hope you still dote on him as much when you discover that his mother was a bigamist and a liar, who tricked a gullible man into believing your beloved was his son.

Yes, according to the documents in Blair’s sturdy, impregnable safe, Wilson so-called Ruffington was illegitimate and not a Ruffington at all.

22

Honeymoon at Home

Adela decided that she rather liked married life. Even if the circumstances of her marriage were not those of most new brides, even if she missed her mother, her sisters, the familiar servants and the cat, dear Mr. Kipper, she was still surprisingly content.

There was no honeymoon. Wilson had offered a trip, even seemed enthusiastic, waxing lyrical about not only great cities like Paris and Rome, but also famous seats of learning he longed to share with her: Heidelberg, Gottingen and Montpellier, where he’d pursued his many scientific interests. But though she’d been tempted, Adela had declined the tour. She was too worried about Sybil and her missing letters, and couldn’t shake an ominous sense of foreboding on that score. It seemed callous to go swanning off to the Continent, playing the real blushing bride, when that was far from the truth, and furthermore, her vulnerable sister needed her.

Expecting a protest from Wilson, she was surprised at his response.

“Please don’t worry, my dear, we can travel at anther time. Next spring, perhaps, we could take a tour on the Continent. Explore at length...and perhaps visit Greece and Italy together and view all the greatest classical treasures of architecture and art.” He squeezed her hand, his touch strangely tentative. “And perhaps it’s for the best. I’m engaged on a project of critical importance for the War Office and it’s at quite a delicate stage. I wish I could tell you more about my work—I trust your discretion, Della, truly I do—but I’ve signed a document of secrecy and I consider that binding, even though you’re my wife.”

“I don’t mind. I certainly wouldn’t expect you to reveal state secrets, Wilson.” She laid her hand over his, touched by the fact he’d even want to tell her his secrets. “And yes, the Continent in spring would be wonderful.”

If we’re still together.

Had Wilson forgotten about the expediency of their marital arrangement? Sometimes it almost seemed that way, although perhaps he was simply making an effort to be nice Wilson instead of the usual cool, cantankerous Wilson, in order that the act of living together be pleasant.

It was certainly a logical approach, this companionability. Especially because his place of work was also their residence. So, in purely spatial terms, he was almost always near, and it wouldn’t do to keep snipping at each other and making a nasty atmosphere.

What if this lasts? Would I mind that? He doesn’t love me, and probably never will...but how would it be if we could stay together as friends?

Might there be a quiet pleasure to be had, working together, yet following their separate pursuits? Especially when, astonishingly, Wilson gradually began to share things with her. He asked her opinion on nonsecret matters, explaining scientific theories and practicalities to her. He went to great lengths to outline the wonders of their home’s electric lighting, and its many modern amenities. He showed her how he used electrical power in the large workshop he maintained at the end of the garden, and all the functions of the many tools he’d designed. Clearly an electrical enthusiast, he even escorted her to visit the small generating station of the local power company, on whose board he served and whose construction and development he’d supervised. She clung to him throughout, slightly alarmed by the peculiar charge in the atmosphere that made her scalp prickle, and the roar of the boilers, and the heavy hum of the dynamos that seemed to vibrate in her bones. Yet to see her husband’s passion for the subject, almost taste it, made her apprehension worthwhile, and she resolved to learn all she could from him about the work of Mr. Tesla and Mr. Ferranti of whom he spoke so highly, praising their generating systems over the prevailing preference for “direct current,” with which he didn’t seem overly impressed.

“Perhaps I should have gone more single-mindedly into electrical engineering myself?” Wilson mused as they walked home, his hand still over hers where it rested on his arm. She didn’t seem to want to remove it, and as he didn’t seem to mind... “But there are so many different branches of science and technology, and pure knowledge itself, that interest me...” He sighed and gave her a crooked little smile. “I can’t seem to be satisfied in one particular area. I have to know all. Sometimes my brain seems to whirl with too many ideas at once....” His hand tightened, fingers strangely tender. “So many ideas and concepts that I forget about people...”

If they’d been lying in bed, she would have hugged him, and drawn him to her. Offered him a distraction from that desperate tyranny of his own intellect, an escape in the form of simple, straightforward physical pleasure. At least she could do that, even if she could never match the dazzle of his mental powers.

But they were walking along a public thoroughfare, superficially at least a conventional husband and wife of some status, and thus subject to propriety. So she just squeezed the strong arm beneath her fingers and answered his smile with her own.

“Well, don’t worry about me, Wilson. I’m happy left to my own devices.” She lowered her voice to a bare whisper, and looked briefly around before dropping him a wink. “As long as you attend my bed at night, I’ll not consider myself neglected.”

“You’re a splendid and most accommodating woman, Della,” he replied, winking back at her, but in his gleaming eyes, was there still a hint of shadow?

Was the rationally devised perimeter of their relationship blurring for him, too?

* * *

A
DELA
CONTINUED
TO
execute her own talents, too.

Freed from the necessity of drawing for money, she found it became an even greater pleasure. Not that she planned to let down Sofia and her friends, or her many other patrons. They’d supported her, purchasing her work in times of difficulty; it seemed uncharitable to desert them all now. So she continued, but drew only notional heroes from her imagination, characters from the classics and mythology, men who were composites, not any actual living male. Luckily, some of her most generally popular compositions had always been sold as prints, the original copied by the same engraver who prepared the illustrations for
Divertissements.
And now that she had the support of an independently wealthy husband, she asked that the similarly well-heeled aficionados of Isis’s special talent donate an appropriate sum to the Saint Agatha’s Church fund for disadvantaged women and children.

And her new artistic liberty allowed her to explore other subjects. Wilson had a surprisingly beautiful garden, and even though he didn’t dig and trowel it himself, he’d designed its layout and he supervised the purchase of plants and their disposition. Soothed by the gentle calm out beneath the willows, by the lily pond, Adela took to drawing there sometimes, and launched into a series of somewhat fanciful images of tiny but robust fairies, cavorting among the grasses and shrubs. She wasn’t sure she actually believed in the little creatures, but she saw them in her mind’s eye at least, and her Oberon bore a startling resemblance to her husband.

Wilson said nothing further about her visits to Sofia’s pleasure house, and she never mentioned
that woman,
Coraline. Both were topics now closed, irrelevant, over. It was important to make the best of their new arrangement, and raking over the coals of their past amours would only make their chances of a true rapprochement difficult.

But still Adela wondered...and she had a feeling that Wilson wondered, too.

His passion, though, remained voracious, which was both convenient and delightful, because the more she lay with him, and touched him, and kissed him, and fucked him, the more voracious in turn Adela became.

Regular sex was a wonder, and different, and new. And not only for all the daring experimentation...but also the sense that she never had to yearn in the back of her mind for someone else. Now she could lie with that “someone else” every night of the week, and be thoroughly and deliciously serviced by him.

She couldn’t get enough of Wilson’s sleek, powerful body and his narrow, precise hands. She couldn’t get enough of gazing into his pale, beautiful eyes as he fucked her. They coupled in every position known to her through her reading of esoterica, and a few that were luscious and new. Wilson had a fine collection of pillow books of his own.

They always used French letters. Another unspoken agreement.

There was only one thing that Adela would really have liked to change. Wilson’s insistence on maintaining separate bedrooms. But Adela accepted her husband’s rationalization for the sake of marital harmony, and he was right, in some ways. She knew his whirling, inventive mind often woke him in the night, so crashing with ideas that he’d spring out of bed to record them at the desk in his room. She’d frequently heard him get up and go bounding down the stairs to his workshop, when simply writing in his notebooks wasn’t enough. All this coming and going was sure to wake her, so it was better for the health and welfare of both of them if they each had their own bedchamber. Surely?

It makes sense. It makes perfect sense.

It was all definitely much more than she’d been given to believe that most married couples enjoyed, probably even the ones who shared a mutual love.

One morning, Teale announced a visitor. It was something of a novelty, as even though her friends from the Circle had sent charming notes keeping her up to date, nobody had called in person since the wedding, clearly respecting the Ruffingtons’ “honeymoon at home.” The weather was gorgeous, mild and sunny, and Adela had chosen a spot under the gazebo in which to work today. It was rapidly becoming one of her favorite places—out of Wilson’s way while he muttered and gnawed his lip over his “secret” work for the government, yet still allowing her to see his dark curls as he sat at his desk in his workroom. Somehow having him in sight lent a greater vibrancy to her work, even when she wasn’t drawing him.

“Miss Sybil Ruffington, ma’am.”

Happy for a change of routine, Adela set aside her drawing— a sketch of Wilson’s austere yet harmonious profile. But her heart sank at the sight of her sister’s flurried and pale face as she dashed past Teale across the lawn.

“Hello, darling.” She rose and hugged her sister, alarmed that Sybil was shaking quite hard. “Come and sit down here and we’ll have a chat.” She glanced toward Teale, hovering discreetly, waiting for the logical instruction—to bring tea.

Up close, Sybil was as white as milk and her eyes were red. She’d been crying, and for an extended period, judging by the state of her.

“Teale, I know it’s a little early, but do you think you could possibly bring us some sweet sherry? I’m feeling a little daring this morning, and I’ve a hankering for something a touch more exciting than tea.”

“Of course, ma’am.” He sped away.

“Now, sweetheart, I know what you’re here about, but let’s wait until we have our sherry, and you can tell me all.”

Sybil nodded woefully. Then attempted a smile, her eyes roving over Adela’s appearance. “You...you look very well, Della. In fact, you look
really
pretty.... Married life must be agreeing with you, even if you haven’t had a proper honeymoon.” Her attention settled on Adela’s waist, not so clearly defined now in her loose emerald-green gown. True to her intention, it was of rational design, and skimmed only gently over her corset-free form. Wilson was delighted with her trousseau, too. Unfitted gowns, and light, nonconstricting undergarments were ideal for impromptu caresses.

“You’re not, um... You’re not enceinte already, are you?” Sybil inquired.

“No, I’m not.” Again the new yearnings stirred, but Adela firmly put them aside. Sybil’s difficulties were her priority now, not her own. “It’s just that I can please myself what I wear all the time, now that I have my own establishment, and I don’t have to worry about upsetting Mama with my lack of corsets. You should include some rational clothing in your own trousseau. I’m sure Algie would approve. There are certain, shall we say, advantages.”

Sybil’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to pursue the subject, but just then Teale arrived with the sherry decanter and glasses on his silver tray.

When he was gone, Adela took a sip of the sweet and deliciously syrupy wine, then fixed her sister with a firm look. “So, have you received a communication about your missing letters? Has there finally been a demand?”

Sybil took a long swig from her own glass, in a way that made Adela half suspect that her sibling was quite familiar with the wine. Then, starkly, she named a sum.

“Good Lord, Sybil, I wonder where this person believes you might get an amount as large as that? One might almost think they’ve been biding their time until we were back in funds again, thanks to Wilson.” Adela’s fingers tightened on the stem of her glass. Anxiety swirled. Wilson would happily pay up. Money of itself meant nothing to him. But the thought of a blackmailing predator out there, taking advantage of the unwariness of young girls, and women in love, was disquieting and made her shudder in disgust. “Is there any indication who sent it? Any instructions about how to pay?”

Sybil’s face crumpled. “Yes...the payment’s to be delivered to a private
poste restante
at the Farage Hotel in Coop Street. I believe it’s somewhat seedy, not a nice place at all...but that’s not the worst of it...” She paused, twisting her fingers so tightly around the sherry glass stem that Adela feared she might break it. “I think I may have made the situation even worse...”

Worse? What could be worse? Adela ached for her sister, waiting for her to expound.

“In what way, sweetheart?”

“I confided in Mr. Devine. I didn’t mean to...I wanted to tell you first. But Mama invited him to dine, and when I went out into the garden, to take the air and clear my head from all the whirling and worrying, he was out there, taking a cigarette. You know how tobacco smoke in the house makes Mama sneeze. He saw my abstraction, and remarked that I seemed pale...and...well...I found myself telling all. I don’t know how...or why. He just seemed so very sympathetic.”

Adela’s heart sank at her sister’s words. Devine
would
be sympathetic; it was his stock in trade.