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
