Wilson slapped her back. Chafed her hands. Sprang to his feet.
“I’ll get you some water.”
“No! No! I will be all right. Don’t trouble yourself.” As quickly and shockingly as it had begun, the fit of laughter subsided. But she clasped her hand to her chest, just in case, to calm her heart.
“So, this practical arrangement of money and lust and—and art? It continues for the rest of our lives, presumably? A marriage convenient to both.” She pursed her lips. “But what of the more conventional aspects? What...what of children? Most married couples have them. Isn’t it God’s purpose for marriage, after all? I don’t think He gave us the institution simply to provide an outlet for carnal appetites and the disposition of wealth and assets.”
“Children? No, not really... I’m not sure I’m at all interested in being a father.” Wilson’s eyes suddenly looked glacial, almost dismissive. “And if you were to start producing babies, you’re most likely to lose interest in your carnal appetites...except as a means to obtain more babies.”
How could he suddenly be so cold? Not that she’d ever considered the chance that she’d be a mother. Nor even wanted it. Until now, perversely.
“You really are quite disgusting, Wilson.”
“You’ve never complained that I disgust you when I’m touching you. Or fucking you...or even licking you.”
Adela shot to her feet. This was a return to the usual Wilson, and for the moment, too much to take. It was all too much a shock to the senses, especially after this afternoon. And worse, his sudden, crude words seemed to stir instant fires and distract her.
“No, no running.” His hand locked around her arm and he pulled her inexorably down again. “You know you can’t say no to this, now that your mother’s hopes have been raised.” He paused, an odd look of uncertainty on his face. “But I...I wasn’t planning to tie you to me forever, Della. I don’t want to constrain you in that way. I thought we might ensure your financial security...and slake our appetite for each other...then perhaps come to some mutually convenient parting in the fullness of time. Either live separate lives, or a civilized divorce, certainly, if we were to fall in love elsewhere. I don’t care about conventions. I’d make it easy for you, and make you appear the blameless party. Then, as a wealthy woman, you’d be able to have your pick of men for your next husband.”
Divorce? Her next husband?
How could she ever forget that Wilson had the cool, dispassionate mind of a scientist and logician? If she hadn’t been on the receiving end of his ferocious physical attentions, she could swear the man was a living icicle sometimes.
And yet the clarity of his proposal had a strange, detached appeal. Perhaps she was as much a logician as he? And wasn’t it better to know the true state of affairs, rather than fool herself with silly romantic notions and the belief that a man might love her, when he patently didn’t?
Wilson’s hand loosened, but she didn’t fly away. The cold rationale stunned her, even though she could see its merit. She just wanted to sit quietly, by herself, and contemplate all Wilson had said, even if he’d already made it impossible to go against his wishes.
“There’s a lot to think about, isn’t there?” he said more gently, getting to his feet. “I’ll leave now, and give you time to yourself. Then I’ll come back tomorrow, so we can discuss the arrangements.”
Had he read her mind again? It seemed so. She waited for him to leave, almost as if she were watching a play, and outside the action.
But just when he seemed on the point of walking away, he bent down to her, cradling her face and kissing her on the lips. It was soft at first, but in an instant, he seemed to come alive...and Adela did, too.
Before she knew it, she was reaching up, holding him as he held her, her tongue pressing against his as it thrust into her mouth.
Carnal passions. They were undeniable. Even if temporary.
18
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
Wilson stared at the ceiling. A little thin moonlight was filtering in through the window, peeking between the partially drawn curtains and making stark, clear lines on the white stucco.
It’s a good idea. It makes sense.
His decision to propose to Adela had come as a shock to him, even as he’d formulated it, but he’d not given himself time to turn back once he’d leaped out of the carriage. Adela’s reaction wasn’t quite the rational one he’d expected, but she’d seemed to come around with that kiss. And she was a pragmatist, just as he was. A woman of sense.
Since boyhood, Wilson had never planned to marry. His parents weren’t well suited, and though he hadn’t understood the undercurrents of distrust at the time, it had been plain his mother and father weren’t happy. Especially his mother, a strange woman, complex, secretive yet stiflingly possessive.
Aware of the predatory instincts of mothers with daughters, notably Mrs. Ruffington, he’d sworn to avoid matrimony, but then one day, not so long ago, he’d proposed it to Coraline. And she’d refused him. He’d thought at the time it was his age, a decade short of hers, but now he knew that her Italian duke had already hove into view, and she’d already been planning their parting.
So Wilson had sworn, once again, never to marry, only to perform a volte-face within days of meeting Adela again.
He frowned. What was this sparkling new idiocy of his, proposing to women who only really wanted him for sex? Coraline had apparently consorted with him because he was an eager and inventive bed partner, and Adela didn’t seem to like him very much at all, except when he was touching her. And perhaps not even then.
And what of himself? What were his feelings?
He’d believed he’d loved Coraline, or come as close to it as was possible for him. But now Adela had effectively erased that, and made him feel as fickle and easily swayed as a flighty piece like cousin Sybil. Worse, in fact, as he was supposed to be a logician and a rational thinker.
“Women!” he growled into the night. Then laughed. It wasn’t women who were at fault. It was him. Why had it taken him so long to realize that he was as in thrall to his cock as the next man?
The damn thing was hard now, too. Reaching down to hold himself through his nightshirt, he imagined Adela’s narrow, exquisite hand doing the honors. She was graceful and deft, as befitted an artist. She could wield his flesh with all the skill that she did a pencil or a piece of charcoal, or no doubt a brush. Drawing her gigolos.
He smiled, grimly satisfied. Well, at least he’d put paid to that. Now he’d be the one to satisfy her, and no more gigolos. Was he up to the job? Beneath the sober black gowns, and attitude of reserve and restraint, she was a firecracker. He’d thought Coraline to be the ultimate voluptuous woman, but beside his clever—and yes, deceitful—cousin, his Parisian ex-mistress almost seemed like a nun.
For a moment, a pang of sorrow wrenched at him. Not for Coraline, but for the lost years. For the youthful falling-out that had turned into lingering enmity and avoidance.
We could have been so happy, Della....
Damn it, lying here aroused but unfulfilled was making him maudlin. And there was nothing to be maudlin about now. He’d no idea what might come in the years ahead, but at least the months of the shorter term were promising.
His cock throbbed in his grasp, as if recalling the fierce embrace of Adela’s puss. How she’d gripped him and massaged him. The thought of her cries of pleasure, so uninhibited, made him tremble. He wanted to plunge into her now, but his hand would have to suffice. Whipping up the hem of his nightshirt, he grabbed hold of his rigid length and began to pump.
Soon you’ll be here with me every night, to do this for me. This, and a lot more.
Would they share a room? A part of him yearned for that intimacy. How sweet to have someone beside him if he woke in the night. Especially when he had a headache from the thrash of thoughts and schemes and theorems in his mind. Sometimes it seemed the machine in his brain would not turn off, and that it ran even when he was aslee
p. That state of constant tension took its toll. Adela could be as gentle as she was fiery, and he imagined how she might stroke his brow, or even cradle his aching head on her breast.
Wilson laughed, giving his cock a squeeze to bring him back to his senses. Adela might be a loyal and dutiful woman, and no doubt she’d perform admirably in bed, to the satisfaction of them both. But she wasn’t marrying him to dispense gentleness, nurturing and companionship. She was probably even less of a caring female figure than his mother had been, and than Coraline, too, for that matter.
If we rub along together well enough, maybe a gentler side will come? Maybe if I try a little harder myself?
But if it was only carnality, they’d still manage. Despite her own mistaken beliefs about her looks, Adela was powerfully attractive to him. Her body was lithe and exquisite, and her face full of character. She had the finest eyes he’d ever seen, and a full, lush mouth. Even her supposed flaws only made her piquant, and not run-of-the-mill. She was a rough diamond whose very imperfections made her glitter all the more.
Yet she was also radical, intelligent and cultured—and well-read, if she’d continued the habits she’d once kept. She was the one who’d begged him to help her gain access to the Old Curmudgeon’s rare books that summer. She was the one who’d pleaded to be shown how to pick a lock.
Wilson’s thoughts were straying down disquieting paths now. He was beginning to think about things that probably could not be. Time to return to the matter at hand. In the most literal of senses.
Working his cock fiercely, he imagined Adela in this bed with him, but not comforting his fevered brow this time. Now he saw her on her back, her slender legs spread wide and revealed by a nightgown pushed right up to her neck. Her narrow wrists were tied to the brass bedstead behind her head. She was constrained and vulnerable to him, her luscious dark motte laid bare, offering a tantalizing glimpse of her juicy, gleaming pudenda as she struggled.
And yes, she was struggling, but her dark eyes were alight with mischief and excitement. There was a pink glow to her cheeks, and she was gasping, her lips parted. Her sex gleamed yet more, awash with silky arousal as she wiggled and wriggled on the crisp sheet beneath her bottom, undulating her lithe limbs to enchant and inflame him.
Oh, what to do with you, beautiful Della?
She was a feast, a cornucopia of temptation.
Should he plunge his face between her legs and sup her nectar? Driving her to a distraction of lust with his tongue, as he licked her? Or should he simply eschew all preliminaries and thrust his rigid, tormented penis straight into her slick, welcoming heat?
She was tied...so he could loop his hand beneath one of her knees and raise up a leg. Perhaps slap her for a while on thigh and buttock, until she simmered there. Lord, how he knew she loved that. A little pain seemed to turn her into a maenad. He could spank her there, then press his cock against the heat, maybe come all over the warm silky skin?
Then afterward, while he recovered his hardness, he could gently stroke her puss, again and again, bringing her to crisis after crisis while she was still bound.
Finally, he’d free her, and possess her, hugging her to him while she reciprocated, clasping his back, rising to him, murmuring and moaning his name as their bodies finally convulsed together.
I love you, Wilson. I love you.
Hearing the imagined words, he finally exploded, his cock pulsing hard in his hand, his seed spurting out onto the sheet.
Afterward, he lay still and shattered, no nearer to sleep and dreams than before.
Bloody hell, where the devil had that come from?
* * *
NEVER BEFORE HAD it been so difficult to sleep. Always in the past, Adela had been able to find solace in the arms of Morpheus even in the most anxious situations. The death of her father, the seeming callousness of her grandfather, the strain on her mother over these matters and others. Adela had always been able to sleep, and wake refreshed afterward, revived and able to think clearly and see the best way to tackle difficulties.
But now, in the small hours, she was as wide-awake as if she’d been plunged into the brine in the course of sea bathing.
Wilson! Why on earth have you asked me to marry you? You don’t want a bride, and if you did, why on earth would you ever pick me?
Of course, it was the most expedient match, in a normal, simple world. It solved so many difficulties. But nothing to do with Wilson Ruffington—or Adela Ruffington—had ever been simple or normal.
And yet she wanted it. For all the shock. For all the complexity of their circumstances. For all she knew that Wilson didn’t love her, never had, never would.
Shaking her head, Adela flung off the covers and leaped out of bed. There was no sleep possible. She donned her old shawl, much darned but warm and comforting, draping it around her shoulders over her nightgown.
She’d draw. That always distracted her mind.
With the lamp turned up high, she sat at her bureau. Prizing the key from the crack in the woodwork she’d created to hide it, she unlocked the drawer and drew out her art materials. The portfolio was in there, too, but she let it remain. Too inflammatory to her thoughts at the moment.
Setting her pencil to a fresh page in her sketchbook, she attempted to clear her mind, and fill it with an image that would soothe. Within moments, she was drawing a flower, one of the beautiful roses she’d recently admired in the gardens of Rayworth Court. She worked hard to interpret the lushness, the velvet quality of the petals, and as she did, her thoughts returned to a more manageable form.
Marriage to Wilson. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad thing. In fact, it could be a very good thing, for all its unconventional origins. Mama at least would be the happiest woman in the world, even if the bride wasn’t. Everything would be restored to her that could be restored, through her daughter.
The pencil glided on, etching the stem, the thorns.
And for her own part? Would it be so horrible to spend her days with Wilson, even though they might be of a limited number? He was a brilliant man, fascinating and learned, and a thinker of the most original kind. Nobody could ever be bored with him.
She wouldn’t be bored at night, either. With Wilson, she’d never lack for carnal pleasures, and knowing her own nature, a lusty husband was a great asset. He could satisfy all the needs she’d ever have in that respect. In the space of a few days he’d exceeded everything she’d experienced in the years since they’d first been together.
Yes, even if this wasn’t the heart-fluttering romantic love match that a dreamer like Sybil aspired to, there was much to recommend it. A few years of interesting company and regular sensual pleasure were far more than many women settled for. And afterward, with any luck Adela would be a rich and scandalous divorcée. Perhaps there would be some quieter, more settled man then, someone who would overlook her less-than-perfect appearance for the sake of a reasonable fortune?
And if not, there were always Sofia’s boys.
Adela laid down her pencil, blinking in the flickering lamplight, then peering closely at the very center of the rose. Then she blinked again, her mouth open in wonder at the strangeness of her own gift, and what it had wrought.
Without even realizing what she was doing, she’d drawn a tiny human face right in the heart of the flower.
Wilson, in miniature, gazed up at her. And despite the smallness of the image, she’d caught his familiar smile, narrow and challenging.
A shudder of fear gripped her heart, but she quelled it. Turning the page, she began another drawing.
19
The Second Miss Ruffington Gets Engaged
Never one for shopping, Adela found the experience exhausting. Which was unfortunate for a forthcoming bride with a truncated engagement, because there was a great deal of shopping to do in a very short space of time. Accustomed to arguing with Wilson, she’d been pleasantly surprised when he’d agreed with her over the arrangements for the wedding.
A grand affair, maybe i
n one of London’s great houses of worship, seemed hypocritical for a match such as theirs, so they both settled on Saint Agatha’s, the small but pretty church just around the corner, where the Ruffington women were regular attendees. Mama had protested vehemently at first, but quickly became resigned. Her mother was so happy there was a marriage at all, especially one she’d wanted so long and believed so unlikely, that she was content to acquiesce to her daughter’s stubborn nature and, to her mind, irrational desire for the simplest possible nuptials.
The wedding breakfast would take place in a private room at the discreet and luxurious Hunters’ Hotel, with a modest guest list. Lord Millingford had declined to attend on grounds of ill health, but to the surprise of all had sent a brief, dictated letter offering his approval and congratulations on the match.
“We don’t need either his approval or his congratulations,” Adela had pointed out, insulted by such condescension. “I’m of age and so is Wilson...and the old devil hasn’t cared two pins about the welfare of either of us up until now, apart from bequeathing his millions to Wilson, who still claims he doesn’t even want them.”
Mama seemed delighted to have the Old Curmudgeon’s sanction, though, despite his less-than-kind treatment. She curtailed her own invitations to a few of her cronies from various charitable organizations, some of whom she didn’t really like, but to whom she was anxious to flaunt her eldest daughter’s excellent marriage. Adela’s guests were just her friends from the Ladies’ Sewing Circle, many of whom were—in public—prominent members of society, especially Lady Arabella, and also Beatrice Ritchie, whose husband, Edmund, despite a lack of title, was one of the richest and most influential industrialists and financiers in the country.
Wilson’s guests were few, but of sufficient reputation to thrill Mama with the quality, if not the quantity. Several eminent scientists, two members of parliament—one a cabinet minister—a senior policeman, a bishop and even a minor royal, attending semi incognito.
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