Portia Da Costa Read online

  “It was just shock, cousin dearest. You kissed first and it surprised me. I wasn’t quite in my right mind.” She darted back farther, still clutching her portfolio of sketches. She had to get out of here. But just looking at him made it difficult to leave.

  Her distant cousin Wilson Ruffington had always been an eccentric, and even his liaison with a notoriously fashionable French adventuress didn’t appear to have tidied him up very much. In fact, he was more a wild man now. His thick, wavy black hair was longer than when she’d last seen him, curling around his ears and on his collar, tousled and yet shiny and clean.

  Which summed him up, really. He was scruffy and fastidious. A puzzle in every possible respect.

  Adela compressed her lips. Why, when he was so annoying and often hurtful, did he still make her want to smile? Her fingers just itched for her pencil, and in her mind she was already drawing him. Aggravating or no, he was a sight for sore eyes, tall, wiry, intriguing and stylish in a way that other men just weren’t. Flagrantly bohemian, he still affected his dressing gown during the daytime, as he’d done seven years ago at Ruffington Hall. He’d swanned about in his robe then, much to the consternation of the Old Curmudgeon—who’d called him a nancy and told him to brace up—and it seemed he’d not broken the habit. Today’s example was a blue silk paisley confection, and beneath it he wore an equally absurd waistcoat in a different pattern entirely. His trousers were thankfully quite normal, but he wore his white shirt sans neckwear or even a collar, and a little open.

  He was a ragamuffin prince, almost a comic opera figure, drenched in a wayward male glamour. Beside him she was the drabbest dark crow.

  And yet...and yet the way Wilson was looking at her seemed to say otherwise. His blue-gray eyes, so pale and all-seeing, monitored every detail of her appearance even as she assessed his. And they were hot. Searing, despite their icy color, their devouring heat confirming what she’d felt at his groin.

  How could he want her after what he’d said six months ago? And the way he’d scrupulously avoided any chance of being alone with her for seven years? He probably wanted any woman, and Adela had simply blundered unawares into his line of sight. Society talk—which she told herself was tedious and uninteresting, yet followed avidly—said that he and the famous Coraline had parted recently, so her randy cousin was probably just missing his regular quota of carnal pleasures.

  Adela narrowed her eyes back at him, imagining her head clamped in place for a formal photograph. Wilson would not make her back down and look away.

  “I see you haven’t improved your habits of dress yet, cousin.” She raked her glance from his toes to his shaggy head, schooling her face to not show the lustful feelings she couldn’t suppress. Far from a lady in that respect, she must not allow him to perceive her true nature, her dangerous secrets.

  “I dress for rationality and comfort, Della, and to please myself. You should leave off your corsets and try it. You’d feel so much better.... Far less prone to fits of temper.”

  Ah ha! How little you know, Mr. Clever Boots.

  At home, Adela had abandoned her corsets. She’d happily embraced a rational form of dress, inspired not only by Mrs. Wilde and other lady aesthetes, but also by some of her free-thinking friends at the Ladies’ Sewing Circle. She’d joined the group just over a year ago, and found it a revelation, in ways she’d never have imagined. The loose, comfortable garments and lighter underclothing affected by some of the ladies were pure bliss after the restrictions of corsetry, and even better, through them she’d been introduced to a dressmaker whose charges were exceptionally reasonable. It was a lot less pricey to run up a lightly shaped “aesthetic” gown than it was to tailor a formal, fitted costume.

  Adela was trussed up now only because Mama had insisted, even if it did mean that her only “presentable” gowns were those left over from mourning her father.

  “Women wear corsets, Wilson. It’s simply what we do. They’re an aid to good posture and they create an elegant silhouette.” Damn him, why did he provoke her to lie? And behave badly... Why did the way he looked at her make her suddenly long to rip the whole lot off, corsets, petticoats, drawers and all, just to make those silvery eyes pop wide? “And pray tell me what’s so rational about the juxtaposition of that waistcoat with that dressing gown? It’s sartorial chaos, an assault to the eyes and to the sensibilities of anyone with even the tiniest appreciation of good style.”

  “Ouch!” Wilson clutched dramatically at the offending waistcoat, even while his eyes still seemed to pierce her clothing and lasciviously view the body underneath. “But seriously, you don’t need a corset, Della. You have immaculate posture and a perfect silhouette without one...and I should know, having seen it.”

  Curse the beast! Why had she ever even hoped that he wouldn’t refer to their “incident”? Their tryst. It had changed her more radically than any other event in her life, but a thousand what-ifs made it far too painful to reflect on often. And she didn’t want to discuss it or refer to it now. Not with the one other person on earth who knew it had ever occurred. Her closest friends from the Sewing Circle, Sofia and Beatrice, were aware that there had been a boy, in her youth...but Adela had revealed only the most oblique details. She’d never spoken of what still sang in her flesh....

  “Well, I’d be grateful if you’d expunge that sight from your mind, Wilson, peerless as you claim it to be. The incident during which you saw it never happened. I thought we agreed to that?” She edged toward the door once more, then faltered, shocked by Wilson’s expression. He’d winced, pain in his eyes and the taut, high lines of his cheekbones. It lasted only an instant, then disappeared again completely, eclipsed by a narrow, wolfish grin.

  “I’m not sure I ever agreed to that, Della. But if you say it never happened, then it didn’t...or did it?” Slowly, lasciviously, his tongue touched the center of his lower lip.

  Her heart thundering like a runaway locomotive, Adela yearned to escape. But somehow her muscles just wouldn’t work. Just the simple task of opening the door and exiting the room was a mountain to climb.

  “Don’t go, Della.” His sharply angled face gentled, the look on it conciliatory if not precisely pleading. “Please stay a little while.”

  It was dangerous. He was dangerous. He was a colossal hazard to her peace of mind in a dozen different ways...and yet he was as irresistible to her as he’d been those seven years ago.

  And retreat was cowardice, too, something she despised.

  But what was better, a wise coward or a valiant fool? Despite his blandishments, Wilson’s attention was most definitely straying perilously in the direction of her portfolio now and again, and if he saw its contents, she’d never hear the end of it for the rest of this weekend, at least. What he saw could become a weapon to wield against her almost indefinitely.

  Wilson was shrewd. Brilliant, in fact. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he was probably a genius, one of the greatest minds in the empire. Yet even the simplest male thinker would probably be able to put two and two together, based on the evidence of her portfolio and her presence in this room. Her cousin was probably a hundred steps ahead of that already, portfolio as yet unseen.

  Why, why, why did I bring it? I should have come only to look, not to compare, then sketched afterward in private. It’s not as if I can’t remember what I’ve seen....

  But there were certain drawings reputed to be in the earl’s collection, special items of which pastiches had been requested. It didn’t do to disappoint her more discerning and extravagant customers.

  Though Wilson would go to town on her having “customers” at all.

  “So, will you stay...or scuttle off?” His pale eyes were narrowed again, as if he’d read everything passing through her mind. “Running away seems to be a habit of yours.”

  That did it. Adela’s fingers tightened, ready to wallop him about the head with the portfolio, but in a massive effort of containment, she resisted.

  “I will stay. Just
for a little while. But only because I want to.”

  “Capital. Now let’s inspect this toy of yours, shall we? It doesn’t seem to be working very well.” With a swift, tight, insultingly faux little smile, Wilson swept back to the desk and the praxinoscope that had amused her before his arrival, his silk dressing gown fluttering in his wake. He hadn’t forgotten her portfolio, though, that was certain, and in one portion of his devious, extemporizing mind, he was no doubt still speculating on its contents with typical Wilson relish. Adela tightened her grip, just in case.

  Watching him, she almost wished she’d powdered her cheeks a little, as Mama had begged her to do. The praxinoscope’s picture strip was a risqué item, especially inflammatory in motion, and with her nemesis beside her a blush rose inevitably in Adela’s face. She braced herself for the equally inevitable ribald comment.

  But for Wilson the scientist, and tinkerer with all things mechanical, a close inspection of the mechanism proved irresistible, thankfully. Reaching under the drum, he probed for a moment, then lifted it clear. Removing the picture strip, he set it aside and turned the circular container over to study it closely before shifting his attention to the spindle on which it rode.

  “Hmm...most interesting. Not a bad example. But obsolete, of course. The future of moving images is photographic, utilizing perforated celluloid film.” For a moment he seemed apart from her, his mind turning over, sifting through possibilities in his grand passion for technological innovation. “There have been some exciting advances.... It’s an area I’d take a crack at myself if I had the time, but there’s a lot of trial and error involved.” He was still frowning at the spindle, but Adela imagined him picturing other devices, assessing their flaws and strengths in fractions of moments. “I saw the Le Prince exhibit, and the work of Friese-Green...but there are still difficulties. Hand-cranking the camera makes it almost impossible to produce an entirely smooth result. The same with the method of projection.... I suspect the all-conquering Edison will prevail in the end. He mostly does....”

  With his lower lip snagged between his teeth, Wilson appeared intent. He seemed completely focused on the job at hand, but who knew what was going on with him? When he set the drum on the desk, he reached into the pocket of his robe. Ah, the ever-present tool kit. She should have known he’d have it with him. Drawing out the leather pouch, small but containing a comprehensive selection of miniature tools, Wilson set to work without a heartbeat’s hesitation. Utilizing several of the tiny appliances, and a few drops from a vial of oil, he made a number of swift but confident adjustments to the contraption’s workings.

  “Well, it’s not exactly a miracle of the modern world nowadays...but Monsieur Reynard’s mechanism still has its charms, I must admit.”

  Seconds later, Wilson reassembled it, then waggled his fingers—as if to say “jump to it”—indicating that Adela should pass the picture strip to him. Still keeping a firm hold on her precious drawings with her left hand, she complied, but her heart sank when Wilson glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. No matter how entranced he was with the praxinoscope, he certainly hadn’t forgotten the portfolio, either.

  Blessedly, he didn’t remark on it, though, and got on with the job of setting the picture strip back in place. On a trial spin, the spinning mechanism worked perfectly, with just a smooth, swishing sound.

  “Good Lord!” Wilson’s dark eyebrows shot up and a smirk widened his handsome mouth as the drum whirled round and round, round and round.

  The little scenario lasted barely seconds, but that was more than enough to get its point across. The colorful and surprisingly well-executed drawings depicted a red-faced, mustachioed gentleman of military demeanor in the process of spanking the bottom of a plump, brazen-eyed floozy wearing nothing but her stockings and what appeared to be a rather flashy diamond necklace. In a particularly piquant touch, the spanking colonel’s manly member was poking proud and stiff out of the front of his trousers.

  I must not look at Wilson. I must not look at Wilson.

  Adela fixed her gaze firmly on the saucy show, and the repeated jerking and wriggling of the painted young woman and her rampant regimental beau. If Wilson was to look into her eyes right now, he’d know everything, her every dark secret, instantly. Then the whole scandalous farrago would be out in the open.

  Yes, I might look like a drab, severe spinster, and a veteran of too many disastrous seasons...but I’m really just as much a libertine as Miss Spanked Bottom.

  Nobody other than Sofia and Beatrice, and the boys at Sofia’s private “establishment,” were privy to Adela’s hidden self-indulgence of her senses. Nor did more than a handful know that she earned her pin money as “Isis,” one of London’s most famous erotic artists, whose works were much sought after by the great and the broad-minded.

  Wilson must never, ever know that she paid men to service her...or that she drew their naked bodies to pay her family’s mounting bills.

  The picture show circled on and on. The rude gentleman of the prominent member smacked the saucy young minx again and again. Wilson chuckled and leaned in closer, clearly entranced.

  Adela waited for the worst. For the words that would say he’d worked it all out...and that she was damned.

  “I do believe she’s wearing the Ruffington diamonds while she takes her licks,” he murmured, casting Adela a glance out of the corner of his eye. “She wouldn’t by any chance be modeled on you, would she?”

  Silently, Adela let out her held breath. It wasn’t what she’d feared, but it still skimmed dangerously close to those shoals. Leaning closer, but not too close, she studied the painted necklace as best she could while the image still moved. It looked nothing like their family treasure, so why had Wilson made the comparison? He must have some ulterior motive, but as happened so often, his razor cheekbones supported an unrevealing mask.

  “So, do you still find such activities titillating, Della?”

  The taunting devil. That, at least, he did know.

  During their shared summer visit at Ruffington Hall, all those years ago, they’d found other naughty treasures such as this. The Old Curmudgeon had his own clandestine collection of erotica, as so many of the nobility did, and after picking the library lock, she and Wilson had investigated it. Several very fine eighteenth-century etchings had made her blush like a peony, and had almost certainly ignited fires that they’d put out together, later, by the river.

  Wilson didn’t seem to notice that she hadn’t answered him. “I was expecting to see dancing Harlequins or dogs doing tricks, not saucy libertines performing unspeakable acts of lewdness,” he murmured.

  “Well, you would be the one to know all about unspeakable acts of lewdness.”

  No! Why had she said that, of all things? Why did she let him goad her this way? Only ten or fifteen minutes in his company, and he’d already turned her into a complete nitwit again. Did his mighty brain act like a sponge and soak up all the intelligence in a room?

  But it wasn’t only her mentality he’d made deficient. Her body was still in a riot from that kiss. And it had been even before that. Wilson Ruffington could render her a madwoman with barely any effort at all, and the worst of it was, her senses adored it. Despite the potential for an almighty disaster, there was nothing she longed for more than his touch.

  “Yes, I’m fully conversant with most acts of vile libertinage. How about you, cousin dear? How goes your sensual education these days? It must be a work still in progress, or why else would you be in here in the first place?” Wilson’s voice was flippant, but there was an edge to it, as ominous as it was vague. His eyes were hard as he turned from the praxinoscope.

  What’s the matter? Have I touched a raw nerve? Surely you’ve not been thinking of me all this time, so it must be that woman.

  “That woman” was the way Adela always referred to the famous beauty Coraline in her mind. She’d avidly gobbled up every tidbit of news about Wilson’s association with the Frenchwoman, scanning the gossip co
lumns and scurrilous rags like Marriott’s Monde, all the while hating herself for paying any attention. Wilson’s life was no longer her concern. Yet she’d still tortured herself, even purchasing a cabinet card of Coraline, then ripping it up, muttering over that woman’s straight, exquisite nose and flawless, pearly complexion.

  I’ll bet you never aggravated her enough to make her run blindly into the branch of a tree, did you?

  No, he’d probably murmured only sweet endearments and compliments to that woman, while they’d played exotic sensual games together. They’d have frolicked and indulged in spanking and other recherché practices. Adela ground her teeth, imagining them together, Coraline all flashing eyes, lush red lips and sublime, plump bosom, lust arcing between her and Wilson like the crackle from a demonstration of electrical power.

  “Nothing to say?” Wilson’s voice was harsh. Was he really hurt by his lover’s desertion? “Don’t tell me you haven’t even thought about erotic pleasure since I touched you... I don’t believe that for a minute.”

  Adela’s fingers went white on the portfolio. Again came that urge to whack him, barreling through her like a giant rolling ball. She was normally even-tempered, scrupulously in control, but he turned her into a termagant. Emotions surged. Anger. Jealousy. Desire. Burning, fulminating desire, and a longing to murder him, to dispatch him by means of intense pleasure.

  “I have some knowledge of erotic arts and pastimes.” She hurled the comment at him, her chin up, her back straight.

  “Really?” Wilson’s eyes flashed. His grin was back. “Pray expatiate, cousin. Have you perhaps sampled the arts of flagellation?” He nodded to the now still ’scope, and the wriggling woman and rampant man, frozen in time. “I didn’t even know you had a beau.”

  “One doesn’t have to have a beau.”

  Oh, please, stupid woman, don’t dig the hole even deeper!

  Was Wilson closer now? It felt so, though she hadn’t seen him move. All she was sure of was that she’d made the most tremendous error, the worst possible. By nature her cousin was inquisitive, investigative. He was a bloodhound after the faintest of scents, a Scotland Yard detective picking at the most obscure clue. “I simply read widely,” she finished, praying he’d accept that, but waiting for his pounce.