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 columns 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.
“Hence your desire to breach this fortress.” He gestured around the book-lined room, at its potential treasures. “To further that erotic education of yours.” His tongue peeped out, just touching the center of his plush lower lip. “But there’s a big difference between reading books and looking at pictures...and doing what we did together seven years ago.”
Ah, now the knife goes right in! I should have run when he first arrived.
But running from Wilson had never been a successful strategy. Even if it would have allowed them the dance of polite avoidance during the rest of the weekend, instead of engaging in special combat, no holds barred.
“I was young, and I was a silly nincompoop.” It was hard to keep her voice cool. She was still a silly nincompoop where this man was concerned. The more she argued with Wilson, the more her body told her in no uncertain terms what her last shreds of good sense pleaded she deny. The tips of her breasts ached against the rigid edge of her corset, and in the pit of her belly the surge of desire was like a pain.
“And I paid for it in more ways than one.” Unable to help herself, she touched the bridge of her nose, where the tree branch had struck. It didn’t hurt now, but it had been agonizing then, so blindingly intense that it had expunged the golden glow of lingering pleasure.
“I’m sorry.” Before she could stop him, Wilson captured the hand that had touched her face, squeezing it gently. The apology was unspecific. It could have been for the tree, or for blunt words then or later, she didn’t know.
How she wanted to hate him. She had plenty of reasons. What he’d said. What his infuriating arrogance had made her angry enough to do. The simple fact that he was a man, a Ruffington, and alive, and thus the future recipient of all her stubborn, misogynistic grandfather’s wealth, as well as his title.
But none of this made any difference. Wilson’s pale, glowing eyes and eccentric male beauty still muddled her. There was no way to remain rational and sensible when she was anywhere near him. He besieged her without even trying.
Run. Run now, her mind said.
Stay, for pity’s
