Portia Da Costa

by Diamonds in the Rough

  The way she, too, toyed with her dessert fork. The hint of tension in her delicate jawline. A faint pulse beating at the base of her throat, adjacent to those dull black beads she wore. Her skin shone like satin there, like freshly poured cream against the edges of her gown, its gleam almost supernatural. Wilson wanted to touch her at that spot. He wanted to kiss her there, maybe go so far as to bite her just a little and show her she didn’t need the embrace of a gigolo to stir her blood.

  Adela’s eyes snapped toward him, flashing. Had she heard his thoughts? He lifted his glass to her in a toast, and after a moment’s hesitation, during which a complex melee of emotion crossed her face, she lifted her own glass infinitesimally in response.

  When she looked away again, maintaining her facade of polite interest in her dinner companion, Wilson glanced down at the raspberry disaster on his plate, then rapidly back up again, toward his cousin.

  Those dim black beads irritated him. She ought to be wearing the Ruff diamonds instead of that simpering miss, Sybil. The younger girl was too bland for such stones. It was like draping them around a blancmange such as the one he’d just mangled; she was a soft girl, and better suited to pearls or opals. Adela was challenging, and uncompromising, and as complex and mysterious as the Earth’s most unyielding form of carbon.

  Wilson glowered, angrier than ever with her. Why hadn’t she insisted on wearing the gems? Surely, as the oldest girl, she was more entitled to, if her mother chose not to sport them? For the first time in several hours, he thought of Coraline. She’d have demanded the diamonds as a right. She wouldn’t have acquiesced and been satisfied with such a nondescript adornment as those jet beads.

  But Adela wasn’t Coraline. They were nothing alike, and the contrast made him angrier than ever. With himself. And her.

  Why do I let women make me stupid?

  He’d spent upward of a month fuming and sulking and what he’d assumed was pining for Coraline, and now, after a few moments of dalliance with his stubborn, dismissive cousin, all that time spent feeling sorry for himself was devalued. Pointless.

  It’s absurd. You make me feel as if I’m superficial and fickle, Della.

  Maybe he was superficial? Maybe he was more fickle than any woman ever born? His appetite gone, all he could think of now was his jealousy. Of her, with her paid-for pleasure. Of her, being fucked, her legs open for another man. Of her, having an orgasm that he hadn’t given her.

  It was intolerable, but he wasn’t going to just sit back and seethe about it. He was Wilson Ruffington, and his life was devoted to solving problems, and taking action, and deducing brilliant answers to every question he’d ever asked or been asked.

  And he’d find a solution to the “Della problem,” too...even if it killed him.

  * * *

  WHY IS HE SCOWLING at me so?

  Adela scowled herself as she followed the other women into the salon while the men settled to cigars and brandy in the dining room. She’d got a headache now and it was mainly Wilson’s fault, although not entirely due to him.

  Sybil and the likelihood of yet more incautious letters, the oily attentions that Mr. Devine was paying to her mother—these both pricked at Adela’s peace of mind...or what was left of it after this afternoon’s shenanigans with Wilson. Watching the interplay between various parties across the dining table had strung her nerves out tight, like violin strings, and Wilson’s never-ending scrutiny had only jangled them and stretched them even tauter.

  He’d stared throughout the entire meal, and somehow, he’d seemed to be staring even when he wasn’t looking her way. For some reason, her necklace displeased him. Once or twice, he’d appeared to be frowning directly at it, his pale eyes filled with dislike. She could have understood it if she’d been wearing the Ruff diamonds, and he had decided that she, or Sybil, or Mama, weren’t entitled to them. But what offense could her simple string of jet beads have caused him?

  You’re a very strange man, cousin, and you’re turning this entire house party into an ordeal of strength.

  Withdrawing with the other ladies was a respite, even if Adela did find the practice archaic and discriminatory. She’d take any odds that the men talked just as much nonsense over their brandy and cigars as the women did over their petits fours and coffee, but there was no way to find that out for herself.

  The grand salon, where the ladies retired, was a beautiful room, furnished in an ornate, luxurious style with comfortable sofas and armchairs thoughtfully arranged in convenient conversation groups. Most of the womenfolk clustered in the vicinity of a rather fine grand piano, but Adela selected a spot on a chaise close to the wall, afforded a little privacy by a large potted palm. A few moments later, on being served her coffee, she was glad of her choice.

  Miss Minnie Blankenship, who had rushed forward to claim the piano stool, was no musician and even less of a vocalist. Her selection of self-accompanied light arias by Messrs Gilbert and Sullivan were a stringent test for the eardrums.

  Admiring the girl’s pluck and unshakable self-belief, Adela still winced at a high C missed by a mile. A sip of indifferent coffee didn’t help matters, and she sighed, wishing away the ever-increasing niggle of pain in her temple. She rubbed the spot with her gloved fingertips, a tactic that rarely worked, but at least made her feel she was doing something.

  “Are you unwell?”

  Adela jumped, almost tipping over her coffee cup, but Wilson swooped forward with uncanny speed and saved it.

  “Do you have a headache?” His own brow was ruffled in a frown, but whether it was concern now, or just more displeasure, she couldn’t tell. He looked as unimpressed with the coffee as she did when he sniffed the brew, then set her cup on a small table at her side.

  “No, thank you, Wilson. I’m perfectly well.” Adela dropped her hands into her lap and attempted a genial, social smile. Best to look calm and amenable. The appearance of Wilson, a man, in this enclave of matrons and virgins, was already causing quite a stir.

  Her cousin flopped onto the chaise beside her. “Are you sure?” He was still frowning, but he spoke quietly, as if it had suddenly dawned on him he was out of place...and in jeopardy. As a well-set-up bachelor with an even larger fortune coming to him, he was most definitely a major catch despite his eccentricities. Some of the adjacent virgins and their mothers were just as much on the lookout as Mama was.

  “Yes, thank you, Wilson. It’s nothing.” Minnie struck a particularly discordant note, and Adela winced as Wilson pulled a face. “It’s just that I’m not much of a music lover.”

  “She’s quite spectacular, isn’t she?” He nodded in the direction of the chanteuse. “But one can’t fault her for enthusiasm, I suppose.”

  Adela smiled. Despite everything, he, too, had tried to see something to admire in Minnie and her cacophony.

  “Indeed. That’s her talent, I think.” Adela reached for her coffee once more and took a sip, for something to do with her hands. Wilson was staring again, his eyes not especially friendly.

  “I admire your talents more,” he said, his voice provocative as he stretched out his legs in front of him.

  What was that supposed to mean? What talents? Almost certain he wasn’t referring to her artistic prowess, Adela set aside her coffee and studied those long legs of his. Long, well-formed legs in surprisingly well-tailored trousers. He’d abandoned his most outré garb this evening, and looked almost sartorial. For Wilson. No dressing gown now, but he still hadn’t submitted to a formal evening dress. Wilson’s nod to conventional male elegance was an overlong frock coat somewhat in the Aesthetic style, its unusual shade of midnight-blue set off by the flashiest yet in his series of evermore flashy waistcoats. This latest example was elaborately embroidered, a Byzantine design in several shades of blue such as might have adorned the wall of a Moorish love palace. The base color was near black, and the pattern picked out in threads of silver gilt and gold. Adela had seen the older gentlemen of the party, and many of the ladies, sucking their teeth
and tut-tutting at such “preciousness” in male apparel, but to her it was beautiful and suited him to a tee.

  To further defy convention, her cousin wore a soft-collared shirt with a floppily tied foulard instead of white tie, and as usual, his shaggy hair had not formed a relationship with the Macassar oil bottle.

  Having apparently given up waiting for a response, Wilson ruffled his tie, then trailed his fingertips down the brocade of his waistcoat. “Do you approve?” Were her eyes playing tricks, or did his touch linger momentarily in the vicinity of his nether regions?

  Her cheeks hot, Adela snapped her eyes back to Wilson’s and saw his were cool, yet dancing, giving off an aura of antagonistic excitement.

  The fingers that caressed his waistcoat had caressed her, only hours ago. That palm had landed hard on her bottom.

  “Well, yes, I believe I do,” she replied, keeping her voice light. “That coat is a vast improvement on the dressing gown...although I do think you might at least have combed your hair for the occasion.” She paused. His intense regard was giving her the jitters. “Is there something wrong with my appearance this evening that you object to? You’ve been scowling at me ever since you came down to dinner.”

  Wilson pursed his lips, and for a moment, almost appeared dismayed. Then his face hardened again. “You look splendid as always, Della.”

  Adela’s heart lurched. He was an unflinchingly blunt man, not given to pretty compliments. He’d once said that social niceties were both hypocritical and boring. When he said something, it was always exactly what he meant, and being a woman often passed over because she failed to meet the most exacting standards of female beauty, she found herself touched by his statement. New Woman or no, pragmatist or not, she did like to hear nice things, even if they came from him.

  “It’s these dull beads,” he went on, reaching out. For a moment, Adela thought he was going to wrench them from around her throat and scatter them over the carpet. But instead he just flicked at the strand contemptuously, his nails barely brushing against her skin. “You should be wearing the Ruff diamonds, Della, not these dreary mourning baubles. Only you can match their luster and magnificence...and you’re the eldest Ruffington girl, so surely you should be wearing them, not Sybil.”

  Was that it? Was he so cross about the diamonds that he’d looked daggers at her all evening on their account? No, it wasn’t that. Why was she trying to avoid the obvious issue? The real reason her cousin had scowled and been unable to mask his raw resentment.

  And despite his espousal of total honesty, Wilson was currently lying and avoiding the issue just as much as she was. He was jealous. Jealous of her “gentlemen of pleasure,” furious about the very idea of them without even knowing whether she was fibbing to him or not. Perhaps he hated the idea that she might even consider such men?

  “The diamonds belong to Mama, and it’s up to her who wears them. I have no special rights.” How long were they going to dance around the real thorn in Wilson’s paw? “Although I thought you might claim the diamonds as part of your bequest, Wilson. I half expect Grandpa to initiate litigation to acquire them any day.”

  Wilson let out a bark of laughter, causing one or two ladies in the vicinity to look around. “What do I want with diamonds? I’ve no interest in any of the Ruffington assets. I’ve got plenty of money of my own...and I certainly don’t want the stupid title, either.” He sounded dismissive and vaguely bitter.

  Against her will, Adela bridled. She remembered seeing a porcupine raise its quills in threat when she’d recently visited to the Zoological Gardens in Regent’s Park, and she imagined herself the little mammal, affronted. “And of course I do?” She flung the question at him. “You think that’s all we’re interested in, somehow getting our hands on Grandfather’s wealth, and maybe his title if we could find a way to twist the law? To you we’re just useless parasites, sitting around bewailing the fact someone else is going to end up with the money we think should be ours?”

  “I never said that!” snarled Wilson, his eyes flashing. He looked vaguely guilty, too, and Adela felt a small stab of triumph. “Well, perhaps I did say something like that, but I never meant it. I was probably distracted at the time....”

  Forgetting the room and the women around them, Adela watched, hypnotized, as Wilson closed his eyes and raised his long fingertips, pressed together, to his lips. He was attempting to master strong emotion through sheer force of will, as she often did herself. Seen in him, it was exciting, and made her want to goad him, to test that mastery.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “What I said about you, and your mother and your sisters, was churlish and thoughtless. I take it back.” He seemed about to reach for her hand, then thought better of it. His face hardened again. Had he lost his battle?

  Adela didn’t know whether to press him and goad him into admitting the source of his ill humor, or instead to try a more gentle tack and reach a rapprochement. It wasn’t fair to Mama, or to their hosts, to make an embarrassing scene, and she was just formulating a conciliatory comment when the double doors to the salon were thrown open and the rest of the gentlemen began to amble in, noisy in their bonhomie and the effects of fine brandy. Adela wrinkled her nose. A powerful smell of tobacco drifted around the army of males that passed by her, and she was glad that as far as she knew Wilson had no fondness for smoking.

  The arrival of the men coincided with a change of entertainment. Minnie was dragged firmly away from the piano by her frowning father, and another young lady, unknown to Adela, took her place. A far more accomplished musician, this one. The newcomer launched into a piece by Schubert, played lightly and with skill.

  “That’s better,” observed Wilson, disquietingly bland. “Now that is talent, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Absolutely. She’s very accomplished. I wish I could play so well.” Adela had taken lessons, as most well-brought-up young women did, but her aptitude was minimal and she’d soon abandoned it and returned to her first love, drawing.

  “You don’t need to play the piano, cousin. You have gifts that far exceed a modest battering of the ivories.” Adela opened her mouth, not really knowing what she was about to say, but Wilson held up a hand. “Don’t deny it.” His lips curved, his expression mutable. She couldn’t tell whether he was taunting, or genuine. “I should like to see what’s in that portfolio of yours, Della. You managed to distract me this afternoon, in a way that was undeniably pleasant.” His long, thick eyelashes flickered. “But I’m determined to discover your secrets...artistic and otherwise.”

  Curse you, Wilson. One single moment of behaving like a human being and you’re back to your tricks again. I don’t owe you any allegiance or responsibility.

  “This afternoon was an aberration. A mistake.... I’ve been overwrought about various matters lately, and I acted, and spoke, very foolishly.” She kept her voice low, too. People were close by, and at least two or three eager mothers were still eyeing Wilson as a potential stallion for their young fillies. “And if you have any chivalry in you, cousin, you’ll forget it, too.”

  Wilson’s eyes were almost metallic, with sparks in their pale silver-blue depths. He wasn’t going to take the bait that she’d offered in jest, to annoy him. He was a razor and could always detect lies.

  He shrugged his shoulders. Was he going to let her off, after all? She noticed absently, with her artist’s eye, how powerful those shoulders were beneath the fine dark cloth of his coat. He’d filled out since they’d last been close enough and spent time enough in each other’s company to quantify such things. He’d gained muscle, become fully a man, leaving the last vestiges of his adolescence behind him.

  Coffee was being brought around to some of the gentlemen now, and Wilson took a cup, accepting a tiny dash of cream but no sugar. He sipped the brew and grimaced, then put the cup down very precisely on the occasional table at his side. With a sensation that an ax was about to fall, Adela glanced around the room again. The headache was nagging as if some
demon imp were stabbing repeatedly at her temple, exacerbated by the cigar smoke, the brilliance of the salon’s many gas lamps and the elevated level of chatter since the menfolk had returned.

  “So, are there drawings of these ‘gentlemen of pleasure’ in your portfolio? Naked studies of them...and their accoutrements...the way you once drew me?”

  The stabbing imp was Wilson now, and his implement a rapier, going straight for the jugular.

  11

  The Very Molecules of the Night

  “That’s none of your business, Wilson.” Her brown eyes were steady and cool, dismissive. “It’s enough that you know I draw erotic subjects. The identity of my models is none of your concern.”

  But it is my concern. Everything about you is my concern.

  Wilson almost laughed. He was being childish about this most adult of topics. But he couldn’t disengage his feelings. They had him by the throat, and as a man of rationality and cool logic, that appalled him.

  The thought of Adela with another man—other men—turned his blood molten. He’d always been an equable and, in the main, pacifistic man, abhorring unnecessary violence both in personal matters and on behalf of the nation. But right now, he wanted to seek out these so called “gentlemen of pleasure” of hers and inflict on them all the harm of which he was capable. His fists clenched, ready to box, ready to strike.

  “I should like to know who these men are. And what it is about them that you find so alluring.”

  She didn’t quite gasp. It was just a little huff of air, let out in obvious exasperation. “Why will you not let this topic alone? I...I was exaggerating. To distract you. You wouldn’t have let me leave that room otherwise.”

  Her face was blushing a delicate pink, the hue enchanting. She blushed like that in the throes of passion, just as she had this afternoon. He pictured that face, glowing against a white pillow as she lay in his bed, sprawled on tangled sheets, her slender limbs slack with repletion. It was a gorgeous image, and he hardened instantly. He’d already become semierect, simply from being in her vicinity.