Portia Da Costa (33 page)

“Yes. The best place for them.” Sybil turned to her fiancé. “Don’t you think so, Algie?”

“Absolutely,” the young man agreed, his own face almost alight with relief, too. He thrust his hand into Wilson’s and pumped it. Clearly, neither of the younger pair knew exactly what had occurred to free them from threat and doubt, but they were both shrewd enough to deduce that their saviors had taken some kind of risk to ensure a happy outcome.

“Oh, Della, I love you!”

That’s the second declaration in the space of half an hour.

But this one was so much easier to deal with, as Adela found herself wrapped in a veritable bear hug of sisterly gratitude. No complications here.

“What’s he staring at?” demanded Sybil as they drew apart, glaring over Adela’s shoulder.

It was no surprise, on turning, to see Blair Devine staring. Staring at the little length of rose-pink satin ribbon still dangling from Sybil’s white-gloved fingers. All trace of his sleek, smug expression was gone now, replace by total confusion and horror. Not to mention frustration. There was nothing he could do. He was shackled by his supposed role as family advisor. He couldn’t even claim to have ever seen the ribbon, much less the letters they had once secured.

Adela glanced at Wilson, who was staring at Devine, too. His head was up, his mouth curved just a little. Not gloating, but bearing a look of satisfaction.

Yes, indeed. A job well done.

Her husband turned to her and nodded. The look in his eyes was unmistakable. He
did
love her. That was no untruth.

But did he want to spend the rest of his life with her? That seemed to be a different matter altogether.

* * *

T
HE
BALL
PASSED
in a whirl. Music. Dancing. Smiling faces. Chatter, chatter, chatter.

The joy of Sybil and Algernon seemed to spread out like a sweet, sparkling blanket of good humor that embraced everybody, making the entire event an outstanding success. Even Adela found herself forgetting her questions about her future with Wilson, and succumbing to the general aura of celebration and high-spirited optimism.

No questions, Della. Just enjoy the moment. You’ve got the most handsome, unusual and brilliant man at your side. You never hoped to ever be able to attend a ball under such circumstances, so relish every moment and savor it to the full.

And Wilson could even dance. Which was unexpected, and yet on reflection shouldn’t have come as a surprise to her. He ran and boxed and practiced an Eastern martial art for exercise, which made him light on his feet and agile. He was lean, athletic and graceful. He’d probably made a study of the repeating patterns and the physical mechanics of the waltz, the gavotte and all the other figures, and was able to reproduce the steps perfectly from memory. Adela was a modest dancer herself, but she seemed to glide and fly over the ballroom floor like a virtuosa with Wilson to guide her.

It wasn’t normally her way, and she wouldn’t have admitted to it if he’d caught her, but every now and again she found herself staring at him adoringly, when he wasn’t looking.

What other husband or partner would have countenanced such a daring scheme to come to the aid of Sybil, and all the other victims of blackmail? Anyone else would have simply scurried around, desperately trying to amass sufficient funds, and then, even if they could get the sum together, the victims would still be left at the mercy of Devine, if he’d chosen to retain a choice letter or two as a security.

But Wilson’s solution was unequivocal. And not only for Sybil, but for others enduring a similar plight. Adela had had time to note only a few of the names on the labels from the bundles of letters, but she saw at least two of those who were in jeopardy among the guests. She didn’t know them as personal friends, so there was no way she could race up to them and tell them the news that would take the haunted expressions off their faces. But in the next few days, a visit would bring them relief and make them smile again.

It certainly made her heart glad to see Sybil and Algie in a seventh heaven of happiness, but there was one person who certainly didn’t look happy anymore. Blair Devine had disappeared not long after the incident with the pink ribbon.

“I hope he doesn’t take his wrath out on his servants when he discovers what’s happened,” Adela remarked to Wilson. “It’s not their fault he’s been foiled, but he’s such an unpleasant piece of work I’m sure he’ll lash out.”

“Don’t worry, Della,” replied Wilson. They were at the buffet now, and despite everything, Adela received a wicked little thrill watching her husband eat a dish of ice cream pudding. His tongue was so mobile, and he was thoroughly enjoying the sweet confection. When he ran his tongue around his lips it did astonishing things to her imagination and made her shudder, as if that tongue were plying elsewhere.

“I left a sum of money with Earnest in case of that contingency,” continued her husband, licking his spoon with scant regard for the august personages in attendance at the ball. “If he cuts up rough, I’ve instructed Earnest to distribute it, and find lodgings for himself and the other staff, and then tell them all to call on us in a day or two, either for a place or a recommendation. I don’t intend that anybody suffer further at the hands of Blair Devine, whatever their station in life.”

“Thank you, Wilson. You think of everything.”

“One tries.” He wiggled his dark eyebrows. “And speaking of stations in life, do you think the marquess and marchioness would think me a yokel if I took another dish of ice cream? It’s really rather good.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t. They’ve really taken a shine to you, and that’s even without knowing how you’ve saved their family from a horrid scandal.”

“How
we’ve
saved them,” said Wilson firmly. “You were my trusty right hand, Della. You deserve equal credit...as well as every other good thing that’s owed to you.” He looked serious for a moment, and yes, inscrutable as always. “And speaking of shines... The marchioness seemed very taken with you, and your frock. Perhaps you’ve created a new convert to rational, aesthetic clothing?”

It was true. The marchioness had been among many unexpected admirers of her unconventional attire, and she had also promised Mme Mirielle’s address to several ladies. It might be because most were so dazzled by the Ruffington diamonds that they looked on any gown they adorned with favor, but it was nice to be on the receiving end of such a great deal of admiration and approval, after years of feeling like the odd one out, or an ugly duckling.

As the evening wore on into night, and the small hours, Adela found it difficult to hide a growing fatigue. She had to purse her lips now and again to stifle her yawns, and she knew Wilson had noticed, even if nobody else had.

“Do you think Teale’s returned by now?” she asked when, to her chagrin, a yawn escaped her control completely. There was consolation in the fact that other guests were also beginning to fade, but still it was a bit galling to be seen yawning one’s head off in polite company.

“I believe so. He’s had plenty of time. Shall we say our goodbyes and depart?”

Wilson had been concerned about the strongbox where they’d stored the letters and documents being left unattended in the Spencerleighs’ mews. It was unfair to expect Teale to stand guard for every second of the time they were at the ball, so Wilson had dispatched the valet home, to put the precious box in safekeeping, have his supper and then, making sure that their residence was far more secure than Blair Devine’s had ever been, return for them. Wilson had charged their two footmen, loyal and brawny lads both, to keep watch all night, lest Devine turn up there on some misguided quest for retribution himself.

After many hugs, and social kisses and promises of visits and of invitations forthcoming, eventually they climbed into the carriage and settled themselves as Teale got the horses under way.

Sleep still pawed at Adela’s mind, wanting to claim her, yet at the same time, she was on edge. The interior of the coach was a different place now. Last time she and Wilson had ridden in here, it had been
before.
Before his sudden declaration of love that had seemed to shift the whole universe on its axis. She wanted to throw herself at him, and kiss him and embrace him and tell him that, yes, she loved him, too, and probably always had done, even throughout all the years of their estrangement and at the height of their most savage conflict.

Yet her eyes drooped, and her tongue felt so heavy. “Wilson...what you said...I...” Blinking, she was just on the point of framing the words and getting them out when he laid a long fingertip lightly over her lips.

“Hush, sweetheart, there’s plenty of time to discuss all that when you’re rested. I can see you’re desperate to sleep now.” His pale eyes were gentle and kind. Sometimes those eyes could be sharp and fierce and coldly dismissive of all those who didn’t meet his exacting standards of intelligence, but that particular Wilson seemed to be off duty now, replaced by the solicitous husband, sensitive to her fatigue after a long, strange night. “Why don’t you rest your head on my shoulder and see if you can doze for a while? It’s been a most eventful evening, and I must admit I feel sleepy myself.”

The offer was so tempting. Her eyes were so heavy. Maybe if she just closed them for a while, she’d feel more alert...and then she could properly tackle Wilson and the issue of her loving him to distraction.

Resting her cheek against his shoulder, she found the smooth cloth of his overcoat felt like the softest pillow, and his arms winding around her were the warmest, snuggest blanket. Even the spicy tang of his shaving lotion was a soporific vapor. She snuggled up, loving the place she was in, and loving the man.

As her eyes closed, and the embrace of Lethe claimed her, she fancied she heard him tell her again that he loved her.

29

Do You Love Me?

Wilson stared down at his wife where she lay on the bed, wishing he could invent some mechanism to see inside the mysteries of her heart and mind.

Do you love me, Della? Have you finally forgiven me for all my shortcomings?

He wanted to touch her. He ached to touch her. She had become the only thing that made him feel complete. Yet she was sleeping so soundly now, after all the excitements and triumphs of the evening. She deserved her rest, and she’d barely even stirred when he’d divested her of her cloak and gown, and her petticoats and stockings and shoes.

There was solace in just standing watch, though. In repose, her face was exquisite to him. Everything about it. His heart swelled with a little pride, knowing that with his help, she’d finally accepted that the shape of her nose and the tiny pink scars of chicken pox were not flaws. They were simply Adela, the kink distinctive and the scars the marks of fairy kisses on her skin.

Wilson had to bite his lip in order not to laugh at his own ridiculousness. Was this what love did to a man? It must be, but he didn’t care. He could be both whimsical
and
analytical now, in the best of both worlds.

Whether she loved him or not. If she did, he was a king, an emperor, raised up by her. If not, he would make it a priority to ensure that he supplied love enough for two and didn’t harm or annoy her in any way. Well, that he wouldn’t annoy her
too
much. He was no paragon, and he could be beyond disagreeable even when he didn’t mean to. But he’d try. Oh, how he’d try.

“Do you love me, Della?” he asked again, framing the words inaudibly.

The signs were good, and she certainly liked him quite a bit now, at least. She’d gone along enthusiastically with his scheme to retrieve the letters, one that would have been deemed outrageous by most other women of his acquaintance. His mouth twitching wryly, he tried to imagine Coraline subjecting herself to creeping around in the bushes of Devine’s garden wearing a tweed suit and no corset. She’d have told him he was ridiculous, and looked at him with disdain. Whereas Adela had plunged into the scheme with gusto and proved to be a valuable assistant. With a delicious flare for the nefarious and the dangerous.

But that wasn’t Adela’s only enthusiasm. She was a willing and imaginative bedmate, too. Had some of that vigor come from her experiences with the gigolos? He had to face that fact, so he brought it out of its box to examine it.

In the main, contemporary society was hypocritical with respect to women’s erotic desires. For many, still, it was as if they weren’t supposed to have them at all. But he knew Adela did have those desires. She’d had them in abundance that very first time, their first, and no doubt before. Despite their virginity, she’d enjoyed the experience as much as he had, that had been evident. And it was absurd and unfair that she be asked to expunge those natural physical feelings because his own thoughtlessness had spoiled everything, and other men had been too short-sighted to see her desirability since.

Yes, Adela was entitled to have everything she wanted and needed, and if that had included carnal satisfaction in his absence...well, good for her! He wished he could have been those men, teaching her, and enjoying her...but what had happened could never be reversed, and the only rational thing to do was to accept it, and focus on the positive aspects.

And it was certainly very positive that Adela knew what she was doing in bed, and knew how to please him.

Oh, yes, indeed...

Randy beast, Wilson Ruffington.

He laid his hand over his crotch. He was rigid again, and the sight of Adela’s lush hair fanned over the pillow, and her smooth white throat, and her gorgeous pert little breasts beneath her pretty bodice, only hardened him more and more.

She’d been the belle of the ball, no matter how blonde and pretty her sister was. Wilson had seen the men eyeing Adela, heat in their expressions, roused by the free, unfettered sensuality of her beauty, and the way her warm glow fired the cool glitter of the Ruffington diamonds into even greater brilliance.

He’d noted their envy, not of the gems, but of the fact she was on his arm. The fact that they knew he was the one to possess her, and pleasure her, and be pleasured by her.

The fact that he was the one she’d chosen to abide with, in fondness, in friendship, in companionability and in sensuality.

And even in the absence of actual love, that was a precious gift indeed.

* * *

A
DELA
’
S
EYES
SNAPPED
open. She wasn’t sure what had awoken her, but when she looked around, she saw the familiar furniture and surroundings of her bedroom. The lamps were turned down low, but through a crack in the curtains, dawn light was showing pearly from outside. The clock on the mantel showed that the hour was now six-thirty.

Wilson!

The sound of even breathing, the sense of a warm, benevolent presence next to her, and a glance to her side revealed him lying stretched out on top of the coverlet, fast asleep. His dark curls were a tousled disorder; his waistcoat was undone and so was his dress shirt. There were studs scattered on the bed and presumably on the floor at his side of the bed, along with his shoes, because his feet wore only socks.

Adela stirred, searching her own form with her fingertips, beneath the blankets. She wore only undergarments—bodice and drawers—and the rest of her clothing was strewn over the end of the bed. The Ruffington diamonds lay on the beside chest, gleaming in the low light: necklace, earrings and her divine new clips, all present and correct.

Sitting up, Adela watched her husband closely. He didn’t move. He slept on, his lean face almost angelic in repose. She reached out to shake him, then snatched back her hand. She’d slept in her frillies. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her body felt far less than fresh, after a night of dancing, and before that creeping around in the undergrowth and being a burglar. Slipping from the bed as silently and with as little fuss as possible, she crept across the room, snatching up her wrapper as she went, and sought the refuge and modern plumbing of her private bathroom.

Some while later, she peered around the door, and found Wilson sitting propped up against the pillows, writing in one of his many notebooks. He was wearing his dressing gown and his hair looked a little damp, as if he, too, had performed his ablutions.

“Did you sleep well, Della?” He laid aside his book and pen, a tentative, almost boyish look in his pale, gleaming eyes. Wilson was the most confident man she’d ever known, but now he looked far from it. She wanted to race across and hug him and reassure him.

“Yes, thank you. Well, just for an hour or two.” She joined him on the bed, kneeling at his side, reaching for his hand. “Look, Wilson, about what you said at the top of the staircase—”

“It’s all right, Della. It’s all right. You don’t have to love me. I don’t expect it.” His hand curved around hers, tightly. “Over the years, I’ve behaved abominably toward you. I’ve tried to do better lately, but I’ve still been an idiotic ass sometimes.” He raised her hand and kissed it, with a kind of desperate ferocity. “I know you want us to stay married so your mother can see you as Lady Millingford. I want to stay married, but if you don’t, we can divorce at some later date. Or live separately. Whatever you choose. I won’t make life difficult for you.”

Adela sighed. Sometimes men could be such dimwits, even the most brilliant ones.

“Wilson Ruffington, for a man who’s a genius, you are the most towering imbecile sometimes! If you’d let me get a word in edgeways, I’d tell you that
of course
I want to stay married, and
of course
I want a proper marriage. One that lasts as long as possible.” She drew his hand to her mouth this time, and kissed it with just as much passion as he’d done hers. “I love you, you blithering idiot, isn’t that obvious? I have done since we were together back at Ruffington Hall.”

Wilson grinned. Grinned like the famous Cheshire cat, his head raised in triumph. “I knew it! I knew it!” Lunging at her, he rolled her over onto her back, pinning her down, his eyes ablaze. “Minx! I knew you loved me, I was just waiting for you to admit it. But good God, woman, you’ve a damned peculiar way of showing it sometimes.”

His mouth came down on hers, hard, yet tender. He seemed to be laughing as he kissed her, elated. The emotion was infectious and as Adela giggled, too, the kiss fell apart again. “You are such a smug creature, Wilson—and you’re a liar. You looked apprehensive just now....
I’m
not sure that
you
were sure.”

Wilson kissed her again, more in control this time, his tongue moving boldly. “Maybe I was, I don’t know,” he gasped, lifting up momentarily. “All I care is that now we
both
know, and we’re in accord at last, Jesu be praised for that!” Moving farther over her, he resumed the kiss, hungry and intent, rocking his body against hers, letting her know that, sweet and sacred though the sentiments were, delicious carnality, and his virile member, were on the rise, too.

Adela wasn’t going to argue. Wilson’s hot mouth plundered hers, his strong body was pressed to hers and his cock was pushing against her, rigid and insistent.

All was right in the world, because he was driven by love now, not simply lust alone. Wiggling beneath him, she opened her thighs, inviting him to do something about the situation.

“Mrs. Ruffington, are you inviting me to make passionate love to you?” Wilson’s low voice was thrilling in her ear, and even more exciting was the way he nipped and nuzzled at her neck, while pushing his cock at her through their clothing. Thin layers of silk didn’t do much to mask its heat and solid intent.

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Dear God, you are such a saucy madam. It’s fortunate I’m such a modern man. A traditionalist might discipline his wife for such disrespect and impertinence.” Reaching beneath her, Wilson cupped the cheek of her bottom, squeezing it through her robe. Oh, how fond of caressing her there he was. And she loved it, too. She couldn’t help but wriggle harder, enticing him. “And you’re a lewd wench, dear wife. You always become enthusiastic in the most unseemly way when I play with your delicious bottom.”

Unseemly? I’ll show you unseemly, you rogue.

Sliding her hand between them, Adela reached inside her robe, finding the pit of her belly and the curls of her
motte...
then her clitoris. With her eyes boldly challenging Wilson’s, she began to pleasure herself, while undulating beneath him and rubbing her bottom against his hand.

“Wicked woman!” he growled, half laughing, gripping her bottom cheek harder, his fingertips digging in, and dipping into the cleft, to stimulate her sensitive vent. “I’ll spank you for that.”

“Oh, yes. Oh, do that. I’d love you to.” Adela squirmed harder, rocking her hips and rubbing her clit. She was possessed by desire, full of daring. She could do anything now. Knowing she was loved made her bold and full of relish for her own hungers and Wilson’s.

He reared up, wrenching at the silk of her negligee, half tearing it off her, even while she still worked her own flesh. Pulling her hand away from her sex, he kissed her fingers and licked them, cleaning them of her essence, before returning to his task of stripping her. For a moment he held her hand again, preventing her from touching herself, but she fought him, staring up into his blazing silver eyes, and finally making him yield his grip.

After a lick of her own fingertips, she applied herself to her task again, writhing and undulating against her abandoned robe, opening her legs wide so he could see every detail of her actions.

“If you steal an orgasm, there’ll be retribution, madam.” His voice was so low, it almost seemed to vibrate, the thrum of it stirring her just where her fingers did.

“I don’t have to steal what’s mine,” she purred back at him, redoubling her efforts, letting her fingers rove to her nipple, too, tweaking and twisting. The little pain seemed to fly to her clitty, enhancing the sensations, and fly to Wilson’s eyes, too, making their pale irises shrink and the pupils expand into black orbs of lust.

“Wicked. Wicked. Wicked.” Cupping her cheek, thumb beneath her chin, he made her keep looking at him while he reached down, slid his hand close to hers and, hooking a long finger, pushed it into her vagina while she still pleasured herself. A heartbeat later, he pushed in a second digit, parting them to stretch her, and to ply the most sensitive areas inside.

“Well, then, Mrs. Ruffington, finish what you’ve started. What are you waiting for?”

Uttering a noise that came out part gasp, part moan, part grunt, Adela rubbed herself furiously, staring into Wilson’s eyes, forcing herself to keep her own eyes open. His hand around her face was unyielding, his fingers inside her demonic and just as taxing.

It took but seconds for the crisis to bloom. As her channel clenched and the divine pulsations racked her sex, Wilson slid his thumb into her mouth, subduing her groans with a wicked pressure on her tongue. His fingers flexed inside her and the pleasure soared.

Shattered by her climax, Adela wilted, but Wilson wouldn’t allow her respite. Withdrawing his hands, he flung off his robe, then, kneeling on the bed, draped her facedown half across his knees, half on the mattress. Her limbs were limp and her body still singing. Wilson’s rampant cock was like a burning brand against her hip.

“Delicious, beautiful, decadent woman,” he intoned, punctuating each word with a lazy slap across her buttocks. There was no great force in the blows, but the heat of them reignited her, reenergized her. She squirmed, rubbing her puss against his thigh and using her whole body as a means to rock against his erection. “Insatiable siren,” he breathed, leaning over her, landing more slaps with one long hand, while with the other he dug around beneath her and into her cleft, to find her clitoris.

As Adela braced herself against the mattress, he rubbed her with the side of his hand, then flicked the little button of her anus with a fingertip.