Portia Da Costa (8 page)

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.

“You’ll have to wait and see.” Waggling his dark eyebrows at her, he threw himself down on the grass, just a foot or two away from her, and attacked the laces of his boots.

Adela applied herself to her portfolio, but even with the green bounty of the natural world around her, and a freshly sharpened pencil, the blank page remained unsullied. She was trying not to look at Wilson, and failing abjectly.

He flung away his boots and socks, then stood again. Turning directly toward her, in a blatant challenge, he slowly and teasingly unbuttoned his trousers and let them drop. Then laughed when Adela looked away.

Wilson
was
wearing drawers, but they were summer-weight ones, reaching only to his knees. Adela didn’t get much chance to admire their style, though, because before she could protest, he was slipping them off, too. She turned resolutely away from him and studied a small white flower growing a few inches from where she was sitting, a bloom of delicate beauty and frailty.

“Not interested in human anatomy, then?”

The temptation to look at him had the force of the fast-flowing stream beside them, and all its inevitability. Her neck ached from the effort of not swiveling in his direction. “I’m very interested in anatomy, just not yours, Wilson. I’m fully conversant with the male form. I’ve studied many great works of art.”

His laugh rang out, lusty and free. It was a happy sound, but it made her clench her teeth. She was always a source of amusement to him, and yet she couldn’t stop seeking his company.

“Oh, Della, Della, Della... Don’t you know that all the classical artists tend to err on the side of underestimation in certain male characteristics?”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

She was fighting, fighting, fighting now. Resisting what in her heart she knew she’d really come here for.

Fiddlesticks!

Trying not to seem at all concerned, she slowly turned in Wilson’s direction. Only to find that he was already at the riverbank and wading in, his back to her.

Drat the man!

His shoulders, his back and his bottom were glorious, though. Before the latter disappeared beneath the water, she admired the firm, tight musculature of his buttocks and the way it moved, propelling him forward. The white flower was forgotten, and she began drawing as fast as she could, her pencil flying, inspired. It was always like this when she found a subject that really enchanted her. She could work quickly, almost at lightning speed, the result forming not only on the paper, but etched into her memory as if on a photographic plate, ready to be retrieved at any time, reworked and adapted.

This was her great gift, and she knew that even if she never saw her cousin’s magnificent arse ever again, she would still be able to draw it over and over, whenever she wanted to.

It took but a few moments to complete the study. Naked Wilson, his firm backside, his well-shaped torso, his dark hair, silky and tousled down the back of his neck. Smiling, she flipped over the page and drew another impression, this time changing the angle, making the view more a profile. But she didn’t attempt to portray his genitalia. Somehow it didn’t seem right, in case she shortchanged him.

“Why don’t you come on in, Della? The water’s deliciously refreshing. A swim will do you good.” He half turned, smiling at her over his bare shoulder. “Can you swim?”

“Indeed I can. I’ve bathed in the sea and I found it most invigorating. And even with the heavy drag of my bathing dress, I quickly took to the strokes.”

Wilson cocked his head to one side. He looked impressed. “Well, then, you’ll find it even easier and much more pleasant if you swim naked.”

“Wilson, you really do and say the most absurd things. I can’t possibly take my clothes off in front of you. It’s completely improper and I don’t know why you would even suggest it.”

Even as she spoke the words, she almost choked on her own hypocrisy. She’d come here to see, think and do improper things. That was her nature. She’d already left off half her underpinnings, knowing full well it was daring and scandalous and would give Mama an apoplectic fit if she ever found out.

“I don’t think you care about propriety, Della,” said Wilson, his voice low and challenging as he spun around in the flowing stream and approached the bank again.

I should turn. I should turn.

But Adela didn’t. She watched the point where Wilson’s body met the water, holding steady as his loins breached the surface and all was exposed to her.

She blinked. Well, it didn’t seem as if
that
would go under one of those tiny fig leaves that adorned most classical statuary. Certainly not. His male appendage was sturdy, and had a cheeky, rather insolent look about it. Even as she stared, it gave a twitch, and she could swear it got plumper and longer.

Wilson gave a low chuckle as he stepped onto the bank. “I’m sorry. I’ve disappointed you, haven’t I? You were expecting a weapon of massive proportions.” Adela’s heart nearly stopped when he reached down and casually fondled himself...something that seemed to make his flesh expand even before her eyes. “But in my defense, the water is quite cold, and that always has the effect of making the male member shrink in order to protect itself.”

“It, um, looks perfectly adequate to me.” Her pencil settled on the paper, and almost of its own accord began sketching in the missing manly parts of her second drawing, before swiftly moving on to another depiction, this time of Wilson’s penis in magnificent isolation.

“Shall I pose for you?”

Adela’s heart thudded hard. Yes, indeed, she did want him to pose for her, but there were other things she wanted, too. Things that obsessed her more than ever now. Not only did she want to draw, she wanted to touch, to caress and to explore. She wanted to feel the reality of a man’s body, rather than just look at it and sketch it from a safe distance.

But if she told Wilson that, there would be no turning back. He was a man, and they were wont to make a yard of liberties out of an inch of compliance, because they couldn’t help themselves. Adela wasn’t sure if she wanted more than a foot.

And talking of inches, wasn’t he was bigger down there than before?

“Yes...please. Perhaps you could lie down over there?” She pointed to a patch of flattish turf a safe distance away. It was shaded by branches that dipped low, toward the river, and the play of light and shadow would afford an interesting texture.

That’s it. Concentrate on the technicalities. See him purely as a pleasing natural structure to be recorded.

Wilson shrugged and padded to the area she’d indicated. With a grace that nearly made her sigh aloud, he sank down and struck a pose, much like a modern Apollo taking his ease. Closing his eyes, he stretched back his arms, causing a stark tension in the muscles of his chest and abdomen. With one leg straight and one lifted, bent at the knee, he seemed to offer his manhood to her, its prominence magnified.

It’s just a pleasing natural structure.

Adela’s pencil raced again. She might never get another opportunity to draw a naked man from life. Even if she were lucky enough to find a husband soon, the gentleman in question might not want to lie around in the altogether to indulge her artistic whims.

Sketching almost without thinking, Adela frowned. No beaux were as yet on the horizon, and even if one hove into view, she wasn’t sure she
wanted
one who hadn’t got time to pose. From what she’d seen of her early marrying friends, marriage wasn’t the entirely desirable state that women were led to believe it was. Adela wasn’t at all excited by the idea of homemaking and entertaining and “supporting” her husband in all things. Or producing infant after infant. One or two would be a joy, and she was certainly very interested in the begetting side of the process, but her instincts were not at all maternal. Most people’s children were rather tiresome.