You’re not scared of her, are you? Ninny.
So he stayed where he was, watching, waiting for the right moment, waiting to see if she still had the nefarious skill he’d taught her once, that day long ago, when she’d wanted to get into a forbidden library and explore its exotic treasures.
Déjà vu indeed. The Earl of Rayworth was reputed to have a fine and very extensive collection of erotic books and scandalous works of art stashed away somewhere here at the court, a secret library of the proscribed and the profane. Wilson had a keen interest in all forms of esoterica, too, and the earl’s hoard was said to include choice items from all over Europe and Asia, rich in words and pictures both divine and disgusting.
“Stupid, dratted, wretched, provoking thing!”
Wilson edged forward again, suddenly enjoying the sight of his quarry kicking out at the oak with a slender foot clad in a black boot of glace kid. The thump of footwear against door and her sudden yelp of pain sent his memory spinning back again, retrieving hot, wild cries that weren’t stubborn or impatient in the slightest, but full of passion and joyous, sensual satisfaction.
About to wade into the fray, Wilson froze when a slender white hand reached up and prized first one substantial pin from her thickly coiled hair, then another. Crouching, her full skirt a black pool around her, the mysterious yet infinitely familiar woman applied her makeshift picklocks to the source of her frustration.
If any last specks of doubt had lingered, they dissolved now. This was the final conclusive echo of the past.
Cracking the secret library’s lock was precisely what he’d have done himself, and he always carried a set of picklocks and other miniature tools in his pockets. There were very often private cases in the many libraries he consulted, and he was too impatient to spend time parlaying with librarians who were overprotective of their scientific and literary treasures.
The graceful burglar beyond wasn’t quite as accomplished at breaking into strongholds as he was, but he was the one who’d shown her how to do it, in that different mansion, and it seemed she hadn’t lost the knack. After a few moments an audible click announced her success, and she straightened, her spine a shallow, exquisite arc as she reached up and jammed the pins back into her abundant hair, dislodging a few shiny, nut-brown strands in the process. The wayward tresses tumbled down against her neck, and absentmindedly she pushed at them. Wilson’s hand flexed in a physical memory—of running his fingers through that lush, silky fall as she clung to him, gasping.
Without a backward look, the slim felon swooped down again to snatch up her leather binder, then opened the door and passed swiftly into the room beyond, her skirts gliding and floating as she swirled them out of the way to shut the door behind her.
Wilson sped forward, experiencing a mix of curiosity, irrational happiness and an uncharacteristic apprehension as he went. Would they argue like cat and dog again? Would it be the more recent bones of contention they scrapped over...or the older ones?
What’s wrong with you, man? Surely you can meet her with equanimity? You’ve got the upper hand now.
How cold that sounded. He shook his head, focusing his attention on the moment rather than the larger picture of their tortuous familial complications.
With his fingers on the doorknob, he cocked his head, listening. What was she doing in there? Was she already perusing lewd Oriental etchings and obscene writings? He imagined her pale, narrow face flushing pink with the sly tickle of arousal.
Arousal? Good God, his own state was far more than a sly tickle now. He was up so hard that he was in agony, and if his hand could remember the touch of her, his damned cock had perfect recall. The throb in his rigid flesh was a direct conduit between past and present.
Stilling himself, Wilson set his ear against the thick door, but heard nothing. The only way to discover what she was up to was to throw open the door and surprise her. And quickly, because lurking here like a randy adolescent only laid him open to the danger of discovery. Not that he cared two pins for his reputation, but his presence would draw attention to hers, and she had enough problems already.
But even as Wilson prepared to make his move, a faint sound did issue through the thick door, and it wasn’t the languorous female sighs for which his libido had been hoping.
What the devil is it?
A humming whir and an odd repetitive clacking noise were quickly followed by a delicious feminine chuckle.
Wilson turned the handle and pushed open the door to find his lady in black standing in front of a broad, leather-topped desk. On it stood what appeared to be a rather substantial but badly balanced praxinoscope, if he wasn’t mistaken, and as she whipped around, she snatched her hand back and the thing slowed to a halt.
“Oh! It’s you! I might have known.”
2
Cousin Dearest
The familiar low, well-modulated voice expressed only mild surprise, as if Adela had been expecting him.
Wilson scowled, even though he’d not meant to. An expression of displeasure at this stage only gave her the advantage. But then, she had that already. She’d probably known he was here somewhere. That dratted mother of hers had probably dragged her here precisely for that reason.
“Indeed it is me, cousin dearest. And I assume you’ve been expecting me? I’ll wager your mother, at least, knows I’m here.”
A pair of large, fine brown eyes, almost exactly the rich walnut hue of her sliding, disarranged hair, glared back at him, stormy with suspicion. She didn’t like their family situation any better than he. In fact, she had far more reason not to.
Adela didn’t like him, either, and in his heart of hearts, he didn’t blame her. He’d crushed her tender feelings underfoot on more than one occasion now. He had a God-given talent for saying the first stupid and often callous-sounding thing that came into his head, much to his self-disgust. Even if he didn’t always mean it. Well, even if he didn’t completely mean it.
“Indeed she does, cousin Wilson, indeed she does.” Adela’s emphasis on the word was a facetious rebuttal of any kind of endearment. They barely were cousins at all, when it came to it, their genealogy far more of a division than a bond. “Since Father died, one of her dearest wishes and perennial goals in life is to accidentally hurl the two of us together.” Adela straightened her spine, almost visibly squaring her firm but narrow shoulders, as if ready to gird on a heavy suit of armor. “But what with our mourning, and your famously clever knack of ignoring and/or regretting our very existence, opportunities for collision have been like hen’s teeth. When the countess took pity on us and invited us here, Mama nearly had an apoplexy, she was so thrilled to see you on the guest list.”
“And what did you have?” Irrational anger made his tongue sharp. Her clear lack of pleasure in seeing him again was no surprise, but it still made him want to break something. At least she could have feigned a smile for form’s sake.
And with a sweet, lush mouth like hers, even the faintest smile was a breathtaking phenomenon.
Dark eyes narrowed. “I experienced a distinct desire not to crash into you, yet now, despite my best efforts, here we are.”
“You could have declined Rayworth’s invitation.” It would have been easy enough to claim some unspecified female malady.
