Portia Da Costa (30 page)

And then he stopped and reared up, looking down at her in the low light, the shadows beneath his high cheekbones pronounced. “I—I always wish things had been different, you know. I was a clod and a gauche boy...with no sensitivity. I never wanted to hurt you, in any way, and I ended up hurting you in many ways.”

Were his eyes gleaming? Normally so pale, they were darker now, in arousal, but they shone, how they shone. Adela could barely speak, for any number of reasons, but she managed a whisper.

“What’s done is done, Wilson. No use living in regret. We must enjoy the moment, husband, no use fretting about the past.”

Wilson smiled, eyes twinkling now, his moment of ennui gone as fast as it had arrived. “Again, you’re so full of good sense, Della. I know I can always rely on you for that.” He swirled his hips, rubbing his erection against her, as if for the pure joy of it. “And I can’t think of a moment more enjoyable than this one.” He paused, withdrawing his hand and pushing his cock in the general direction of where it had been. “Apart from the moment when I actually possess you, dear wife.”

For a moment, Adela was right on the point of reaching down, taking hold of him and guiding him inside her body...unsheathed. But then she hesitated. That way lay possible total commitment, and she wasn’t sure he wanted that. He seemed to confirm her hesitation by pressing a swift kiss on the end of her nose, then rocking away from her and reaching toward the top drawer in the chest by the bed.

For a French letter. She knew he kept a plentiful supply of the things somewhere, and always made sure that the small stock in her drawer was replenished, no matter how carnally active they’d been.

“Shall I?” She reached for the fine rubber sheath.

“Please do.... I always find your touch most deft.”

As she enrobed him, she wondered, as she often did, if he was thinking about her experience in these matters. Was he imagining her putting the device on Yuri, or Clarence? She didn’t regret the pleasures she’d purchased for herself. What she’d learned at Sofia’s house had certainly made her a better lover for Wilson, but sometimes, she wished in a small corner of her heart that he’d been her only man.

But then, she would never be his only woman. There was Coraline, who he’d probably loved as much as he was able. And others, he’d admitted to her, while assuring her that he’d always taken care. As she’d assured him...

They could not expunge the past. The past made them what they were. And now she must follow her own advice.

“There, nicely clad,” she said, reaching across to kiss him on the nose, as he’d kissed her. “Shall we put it to good use and enjoy the efficacious, relaxing benefits of a good fuck?”

“Indeed!” Wilson chuckled, reaching down to position himself. “Nothing too fancy, I think. As you say, just a good fuck. I’m a little too fatigued to manage anything elaborate tonight.”

Adela shuffled into a better position, tilting her hips to help him, and spreading her legs wide to invite him into the cradle of her sex. Adjusting his weight, and moving fully over her, Wilson pushed home, sliding to the hilt with a long, happy gasp.

With a gasp of her own, Adela wound herself around him, arms, legs, her very being. There was nothing like the sensation of his solid presence inside her body, a delight in itself, even when still, before the action. Flexing against him, she gripped and held him from within.

“Oh, Della, Della...you are a wonder.” He pushed yet deeper, rubbing his face joyously against hers like an affectionate cat. “How good you feel.”

For a few moments they lay inert, and joined, as if that were enough. Then Wilson gave her a fierce kiss on the soft skin of her throat, and began to swing his narrow, powerful hips in a slow, solid rhythm. Adela matched him, rising reciprocally, arching hard.

It didn’t last long. She wanted him too much, and the angle he fucked her at was so perfect that a part of her wondered if at some time he’d sat down and calculated the best way to knock against her clitoris and stimulate her with each stroke. She wouldn’t put such a thing past him, and the thought made her giggle even as she hit her crisis and her channel clenched and gripped him even harder. She was half laughing, half moaning through her orgasm, and when she looked up into Wilson’s eyes, and he waggled his dark eyebrows playfully in the very instant before his pale face contorted in ecstasy, she soared again, crying his name and scoring his back with her nails.

A little while later, he asked, his voice blurred with sleep, “What was so funny? When you were spending?”

Her limbs still tangled with his, and her nightgown still bunched beneath her arms, Adela stirred, and wondered if she dare speak the truth.

“I sometimes fancy you’re calculating the angle at which you thrust, for maximum effect, when you’re tupping me. And I thought of it right at that moment and it made me laugh at the same time as my pleasure.”

Wilson eased his weight off her, and Adela tensed, fighting the urge to hold on tight and prevent him. Any moment now, she’d get a kiss on the brow and he’d be out of bed, in his dressing gown, and on his way to the solitude of his own room. Sometimes, she knew, he even returned to his workshop after lovemaking.

But not tonight, it seemed. Wilson flopped onto his back, with his arm still draped across her belly. “Well, actually, I have done some anatomical studies...and I
have
deduced the optimum angle....” His hand moved slowly, in a light, almost unconscious caress.

“Well, I must admit I’m heartily grateful for that, husband. I commend your scholarship.” She tried to make her voice light, her tone casual, but she was half afraid Wilson would hear the pounding of her heart.

Was he staying? He seemed to be showing no signs of moving. His dark head looked settled and at peace on her pillow. She hardly dared breathe, in case it disturbed him and he sat up, searching for his robe.

Then his eyes snapped open, as if he’d felt her watching him. Which he probably had, with his unusually acute senses. “Aren’t you sleepy?” He came up on one elbow, his silver-blue gaze sharpening. “Would you prefer me to leave?”

Adela could hardly respond. She tugged ineffectually at her tangled nightgown, grappling with it.

“Here, let me.... Lift up your bottom.” As she complied, Wilson deftly whipped the voluminous garment down beneath her, then smoothed the front of it, too, before arranging the bedcovers neatly over her. Then he gazed down at her again, his eyes intense, as if he were asking his question again, and many more besides.

“Can I stay, Della?” he said at last. “I think I’ll sleep better...and perhaps you will, too. But the decision is solely yours, my dearest.”

Dearest?

Feeling as if she were going to explode, somehow, Adela fabricated an easy smile and patted the pillow at her side. “Of course. Do stay. I think you’re right. We’re both tired and I’m sure we’ll be able to sleep well together. It’s a wide bed and we’re both quite slender, aren’t we?”

“Indeed we are...indeed we are.” Wilson settled back, still looking at her, still the perfect enigma. Rolling onto his side, he smoothed her hair where some of it had strayed across her cheek. “I’ll turn out the light. Now rest, Della, go to sleep...and try not to fret about Sybil and her letters. We’ll soon have them retrieved and all will be well.”

He rolled away for a moment, and then the light went out, but Adela could still see his silhouette. He seemed to hesitate a second, then kissed her on the brow and lay down again beside her.

A few moments ago, sleep had seemed a thousand miles away, but now, suddenly, exhaustion claimed her. She smiled to herself, realizing as she did that for the past half hour or so, she’d not spared a single thought for Sybil’s letters. All she’d had in her mind was Wilson, and his delicious lovemaking, and after that, their future together.

Turning her head on the pillow, she focused what remained of her senses on her husband’s noble profile, accepting the even sound of his breathing as a good sign, and the very embodiment of “possibilities.”

And hope.

26

The Game’s Afoot

The next few days were a whirl of preparation for the engagement ball, and Wilson divided his time between work on his secret, mysterious projects for the War Office, and devising a careful plan for the assault on the house of Blair Devine.

He grinned with approval at Adela’s choice of the heather-brown tweed knickerbocker suit, and darted over, kissed her hard and squeezed her bottom when she tried it on for him. “If I weren’t so pressed for time, I would be compelled to do something about you, you naughty handsome lad. My mind runs on the most wicked perversions, seeing you with those trim breeches clinging to your delightful buttocks.”

“I must own that similar thoughts have passed through my mind, too,” replied Adela, gasping. The pressure of Wilson’s fingertips was tantalizingly close to her sex as he gripped her. Was he actually shaking?

“I might have known. You have a wicked mind to match your tempting body, Della, and I promise you, when all this business is over, we shall explore those delightful avenues.” The press of his fingers into her rear groove left her in no doubt of the orientation of said avenues.

And now that they were sleeping together, there were more opportunities for play.

After that first night, when he’d not only stayed until morning, but woken her in the small hours for more lovemaking, he’d said nothing more about the situation. But every night he’d come to her room, bare under his robe, then slid into bed beside her. Moments later, they were kissing, exploring each other’s bodies then very soon fucking. Adela was thrilled by these new sleeping arrangements, but sensing Wilson preferred not to make a to-do about it, she remained silent and hugged her contentment to herself.

As well as the heather suit, there was another costume to be tried on, too—her gown for the ball. Mme Mirielle had excelled herself and produced a magnificent confection of midnight-blue velvet, trimmed with tissue of silver-and-gold embroidery. The clever couturiere had put the garment together at extremely short notice, and even though the rational styling was very simple—a loose-flowing Empire line—the ornamentation must have taken much painstaking work. Adela had gasped at the final price, but when forced to approach Wilson for an addendum to her allowance, he’d pooh-poohed the cost and announced the results of Madame’s labors to be magnificent, and worth twice the price. He’d also suggested that Adela have more gowns made up in a similar style and degree of embellishment.

“You look very beautiful, Della.” His voice had been strangely rough as he’d surveyed her in the gown. It was necessary he approve it from a technical standpoint, too, for if she were to climb into it quickly after their benevolent but nefarious endeavor, he would have to help her don the gown while they traveled in their coach to the Spencerleigh mansion from Norwood. Luckily in most ways, the two venues were conveniently close by carriage, with fast horses, but it would mean a harum-scarum flurry of disrobing and dressing again in close quarters. A closely confined space that would be rocking from the motion of the horses’ gait.

“That color is perfect on you. It complements your hair and your eyes. You’ll outshine every other woman in the room.” He twirled her around. “And these simple buttons down the back should be easy to negotiate.” Because the gown was unfitted, there were just a few fastenings at the back. The whole thing could actually be put on over her head, such was the convenience of so modern and sensible a garment. “What shall we do with your hair?” Her husband stroked his fingers over the crown of her head, lingering a little. “Something simple, I think... Loose, with a few strands caught back. And a feather or two, perhaps? Or flowers? No, some kind of clip or comb, I think.”

Adela suppressed a smile. Who would ever have thought that Wilson would be so well versed in the finer details of a woman’s toilette? Or maybe it was just
her
toilette? She couldn’t imagine a queen of fashion like Coraline ever letting a man influence her choice of gowns or the arrangement of her hair.

Or taking the opportunity to accompany her lover on a blatantly illegal escapade.

He may not love me, but at least he seems to trust me more than she.

* * *

A
T
LAST
,
AFTER
what seemed like an eternity of time spent in meticulous preparation, in reality barely more than a week, the fateful night arrived. As was hardly surprising, another communication had arrived from the “blackmailer” consenting, with some subtle menaces, to the delay and the alternative offer, so all was set fair for Wilson’s scheme.

“Better not tell Sybil anything about this endeavor of ours. It’s enough to know that we have the matter in hand. If she knew specifics, she might speak unwisely in a state of anxiousness or anticipation,” said Wilson, as he overlooked the tweed suit set out on her bed, and the dress box containing her blue gown, a wrap, her small evening bag and her dancing slippers. Tucked away beneath the layers of velvet and tissue was the jewelry case containing the Ruffington diamonds.

Adela agreed. She’d refrained from telling Sybil any details, only assuring her that all would be well. “Quite right, although I believe Marguerite might be trusted, if need be. She’s the most sensible of all the Ruffington women.”

“Perhaps you’re right....” Wilson sounded thoughtful. “Although I’m sure on the surface, most people have always thought you the sensible one. Yet here you are, about to embark on this mission of high derring-do with me.”

Don’t you realize that I’d go anywhere with you, my love? Surely, if you’re so clever, you’ve perceived that? And yet, you do nothing to discourage me. I could almost imagine...

Imagine what? Adela banished her wishful thoughts and focused on Wilson, who was fishing in the pocket of his dressing gown. As she watched, he drew out another blue velvet-covered box, slightly smaller than the one packed with her gown, but still obviously the vessel for some mysterious item of jewelry. It certainly wasn’t any of the very few modest pieces that Adela had brought with her on her marriage.

“I never purchased you a ring to mark our engagement...and I feel I should have done.” He glanced at her left hand, where she wore only a very simple golden band. “So here is a token of my esteem in its place.” He pursed his lips, tapped the box with his fingers. Was he nervous? “I know you’ve tried out other pins or combs for your hair tonight...but I’d like you to wear these, if they’re suitable for the purpose. They have a very clever fastening, which I devised myself, I might add. We can use them to swiftly fasten back a few tresses in a pleasing style.” Still clutching the box, he reached out again, catching a strand and smoothing it back.

“Oh, Wilson, that’s thoughtful. May I see it?”

With a little smile, he flipped open the lid...and Adela gasped.

Beautiful diamonds glittered on their velvet bed, all set in a pair of simple but elegant curlicues, and each stone more than a match for the family gems she would be wearing.

“Oh, Wilson...” she sighed, at a complete loss for anything else.

“Do you like them?” He still sounded anxious, lifting out the ornaments and tossing the box aside. “Here, see how the clip works...” He demonstrated one the ingenious fastenings. “Shall we try them?”

“Um...yes, I think we should.” Adela reached for her comb and neatly caught back sections of her hair, holding them in place while Wilson affixed first one of the diamond clips, then the other. It seemed odd for her husband alone to be attending to her toilette on the night of a grand ball, and Adela’s new maid had been mystified and a little crestfallen when told her services weren’t required. But the young woman had brightened again immediately on receipt of a generous bonus and extra day off to visit her family.

It wouldn’t have done for her to see her mistress donning not her beautiful blue-and-silver-gold gown...but instead one of the master’s country suits!

Still taken aback by the beauty of Wilson’s gift, Adela found her hands shook when she attempted to make an adjustment to her hair. But gently lowering her fingers, Wilson took over and performed the task perfectly, teasing a few soft, fetching shorter fronds around her face.

“There,” he said, clearly pleased with his efforts.

Adela laughed, smiling at her own reflection. Crooked nose and chicken pox marks notwithstanding, she acknowledged freely and without any qualm that she looked a picture.

Was it living with Wilson and being the recipient of his frequent and inventive lovemaking that had given her such a glow? Or was it because, even in the absence of spoken avowals of love, his obvious respect, companionship and affection had transformed into her a beauty? Perhaps it was simply the new confidence she felt inside herself that had initiated the change?

“Is there not one skill or task at which you don’t excel, husband dear?” she asked brightly, to hide the way her own radiant appearance shook her. “There’s a future for you as a ladies’ hairdresser should the government and the captains of industry ever dispense with your services.”

“I could call myself Monsieur Wilsonetti.” He waggled his dark brows playfully at her, and ran his fingertips down the smooth fall of her hair, where it hung down her back. “So, do you like the clips? I think they should perform their purpose admirably.”

“Wilson, they’re exquisite! Beyond beautiful...” Adela turned, reached around for the stroking hand and drew it to her lips, impressing a passionate kiss upon it. “It’s the most beautiful gift I’ve ever been given....” She kissed his fingers again, acknowledging a lie. His regard for her, which seemed to grow despite the unusual nature of their marriage, was a greater gift by far.

He dipped down slightly, and with his face beside hers, turned her to the mirror again, so his reflection could grin at her. “Good. I’m glad you like it...but you’re going to have to earn it tonight, my dear. We’ve got an adventure ahead of us, and alas, these pretty baubles must go in the box with everything else, and we’ll have to tie up your hair or plait it, ready for the cap.”

With a brisk kiss to her cheek, he straightened up, instantly businesslike again as he unlatched the clips, then stowed them away in the box, ready for transit in their carriage to Spencerleigh House.

* * *

I
N
AN
UPPER
bedroom window of the handsome south London villa, an oil lamp flickered.

“There. That’s the sign.” Wilson pointed toward it with a long, black gloved finger. His voice was low, and his pale eyes gleamed in a way that was almost unearthly behind the dark silk mask he was wearing, a match to the one that covered the upper part of Adela’s face.

“So the coast will be clear?” she whispered back to him. They were crouched behind abundant bushes in the corner of the garden of Blair Devine’s house, after having climbed the wall, Wilson having given her a leg up before shimmying over himself, his height giving him a distinct advantage as a climber.

“Yes. My new young friend, his footman—soon to be a footman of ours—was instructed to light the lamp once Devine has left for the ball.”

“What of his other servants?” Adela adjusted her position. She’d worn the borrowed trousers before, and others in her youth, but it still felt extremely odd to have so much cloth between her legs—the sturdy breeches and the narrow cut drawers she’d selected especially for the occasion. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. In fact, it was vaguely exciting in a perverse way, and she had to school her concentration so as not to give in to the lascivious thoughts that she’d had while first trying on the heather suit. It didn’t help that Wilson looked so mysterious and downright devastatingly attractive in his devilish silk mask.

“Don’t worry...a couple bottles of brandy, courtesy of my friend the local innkeeper, judiciously dosed with a little laudanum by Earnest, our footman friend, will have them snoozing by now...while he keeps watch at the other end of the lane.”

“So we appear to have all angles covered then, with Teale and the carriage around the corner at the other end?” She reached up to adjust her cap. Her hair was in a plait beneath it, and she’d jammed hat pins through the tweed for security, but it still felt precarious, and she kept having to push shorter strands back out of view.

“Quite so. And with luck, we should remain undisturbed and have more than sufficient time to get in, breach the safe and peruse the documents within.” He reached out and tapped her shoulder reassuringly. “Now come along, my dear...the game is on now. We’re about to break the law, and the sooner we’re about our task, the sooner we can be back in the carriage and on the way to Sybil’s grand event, just as if nothing had ever happened.” He winked. “And who wouldn’t believe I hadn’t been detained making love to my glorious wife? The perfect reason to be late to the affair.”

“Wilson, behave,” she mouthed to him, grinning despite the tension of the situation as she braced herself to move forward. They both wore black rubber-soled shoes, designed for sporting activity, in order to be silent and fleet of foot, if required.

Wilson took her gloved hand in his, then led her forward, skirting the edge of the garden, then scuttling to the next bit of cover afforded by bushes. Pausing for a moment, he whispered, “I might even be compelled to actually ravish you in the carriage, my dear, if we have time. The sight of you in those breeches is having quite an effect on me.”

“I hope you’ll be able to concentrate on the task in hand.”

“I’ll manage, never fear.” With that he urged her forward again, and they ran at a crouch until they reached the window to the room that Wilson had determined was Devine’s study.

First, her husband popped up his head and peered in, then he scanned the garden behind them, his sharp gaze darting hither and thither, checking all aspects. Cautiously edging to his side, Adela peeked into the room, too. It was unlit, but the remains of a small fire shed some radiance, creating ominous shadows and deep, dark corners.

“I think we may proceed,” Wilson whispered, then reached into the canvas satchel he had slung over his shoulder, the mate of which Adela carried.