Portia Da Costa

by Diamonds in the Rough

  “That’s very true, Della....” Was he pressing closer? Was his cock hardening? She’d thought it was wishful thinking, but now it seemed it wasn’t. He was most definitely stiff. “I...I was wondering...as you’re not ready for sleep just yet, perhaps I might, um, trouble you, after all?” He rocked his lean hips, pressing the evidence of his desire to trouble her against her belly now.

  Adela pursed her lips, once again trying not to grin like a fool. “It’s no trouble at all, Wilson. In fact, it might help us both to sleep, and you obviously need rest after such a taxing day.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought, too.” She could hear the puckish little smile in his voice, even though she couldn’t exactly see his face as he cradled her head against his shoulder. “You’re a very wise woman, dear wife. You always know the correct thing to do in any given situation.”

  Long, clever fingertips started plucking at her nightgown, easing it upward. In a flash it was bundled around her waist, then onward and upward until it was pushed right up to her chest. Wilson curved his hand around one of her breasts, the hold light yet assertive, and so familiar now, that his fingers seemed to be saying hello to her skin.

  Reaching for him, too, she buried her fingers in his dark curls, and slid her other hand around his lean hips, drawing him to her. With a sigh, she pressed her lips to his, opening hers to invite his tongue inside.

  Yes! His mouth tasted fresh, minty from tooth powder as he accepted her invitation, invading and playing, darting and teasing. All the time, he squeezed her breast in a light, provoking rhythm, stroking her nipple with his thumb and making her wriggle. Wriggle and rub her pelvis against his, and against the only part of him that was not slender and wiry, but thick and imposingly solid.

  “Ah yes...ah yes...” His voice was low, even more husky than its normal note as he smothered her face with kisses, and slid his hand down her torso and her belly to the juncture of her thighs. Adela leaped against him, hungry for his squeezing touch as he cupped her puss in a tender grip. “I thought of you as I lay in the undergrowth, standing surveillance. I wished you were beside me. I knew it would be absurd to make love to you there, but I just wanted your company. Your presence...”

  Behind tightly closed lids, Adela’s eyes watered. He sounded so affectionate, so devoted. Yet she knew he thought of her only in the most pragmatic terms. A pleasant, intelligent enough companion; an eager bed partner, willing to experiment. She wasn’t sure Wilson could love, and she still plagued herself, wondering what his feelings for Coraline had been.

  Gasping as his long, flexible finger accurately located her clitoris, she embraced the delicious pleasure, but also stood apart a bit, in her mind. Sternly, she told herself not to be silly, and a ninny. So many women were doomed to less than ideal marriages, and often a lifetime of disillusionment. At least she knew where she stood with Wilson, and there were many, many compensations to offset any lack of the most delicate feelings. Even if their time together was finite, it would be a good time, an excellent time, if she could forget about her annoying urge to want more.

  Enjoy what you have. Because it’s so very good!

  More than good, it was wonderful as Wilson cleverly circled the pad of his fingertip, rolling the sensitive bead of her pleasure in exactly the rhythm, and with exactly the pressure, that she adored. Her sex fluttered wildly, brought almost to crisis in just moments by his splendid precision. Heels dragging against the mattress, she arched up into the caress, her own fingers clutching hard at the firm muscles of his bottom.

  “Wonderful... Always so ready...” purred Wilson, still circling, more slowly now, more tantalizingly. “I love that you’re always so wet for me. I’ve always loved that.... Even when you were barely more than a girl, you were still a woman.” He kissed her again, his mouth gliding over her face.

  And then he stopped and reared up, looking down at her in the low light, the shadows beneath his high cheekbones pronounced. “I—I always wish things had been different, you know. I was a clod and a gauche boy...with no sensitivity. I never wanted to hurt you, in any way, and I ended up hurting you in many ways.”

  Were his eyes gleaming? Normally so pale, they were darker now, in arousal, but they shone, how they shone. Adela could barely speak, for any number of reasons, but she managed a whisper.

  “What’s done is done, Wilson. No use living in regret. We must enjoy the moment, husband, no use fretting about the past.”

  Wilson smiled, eyes twinkling now, his moment of ennui gone as fast as it had arrived. “Again, you’re so full of good sense, Della. I know I can always rely on you for that.” He swirled his hips, rubbing his erection against her, as if for the pure joy of it. “And I can’t think of a moment more enjoyable than this one.” He paused, withdrawing his hand and pushing his cock in the general direction of where it had been. “Apart from the moment when I actually possess you, dear wife.”

  For a moment, Adela was right on the point of reaching down, taking hold of him and guiding him inside her body...unsheathed. But then she hesitated. That way lay possible total commitment, and she wasn’t sure he wanted that. He seemed to confirm her hesitation by pressing a swift kiss on the end of her nose, then rocking away from her and reaching toward the top drawer in the chest by the bed.

  For a French letter. She knew he kept a plentiful supply of the things somewhere, and always made sure that the small stock in her drawer was replenished, no matter how carnally active they’d been.

  “Shall I?” She reached for the fine rubber sheath.

  “Please do.... I always find your touch most deft.”

  As she enrobed him, she wondered, as she often did, if he was thinking about her experience in these matters. Was he imagining her putting the device on Yuri, or Clarence? She didn’t regret the pleasures she’d purchased for herself. What she’d learned at Sofia’s house had certainly made her a better lover for Wilson, but sometimes, she wished in a small corner of her heart that he’d been her only man.

  But then, she would never be his only woman. There was Coraline, who he’d probably loved as much as he was able. And others, he’d admitted to her, while assuring her that he’d always taken care. As she’d assured him...

  They could not expunge the past. The past made them what they were. And now she must follow her own advice.

  “There, nicely clad,” she said, reaching across to kiss him on the nose, as he’d kissed her. “Shall we put it to good use and enjoy the efficacious, relaxing benefits of a good fuck?”

  “Indeed!” Wilson chuckled, reaching down to position himself. “Nothing too fancy, I think. As you say, just a good fuck. I’m a little too fatigued to manage anything elaborate tonight.”

  Adela shuffled into a better position, tilting her hips to help him, and spreading her legs wide to invite him into the cradle of her sex. Adjusting his weight, and moving fully over her, Wilson pushed home, sliding to the hilt with a long, happy gasp.

  With a gasp of her own, Adela wound herself around him, arms, legs, her very being. There was nothing like the sensation of his solid presence inside her body, a delight in itself, even when still, before the action. Flexing against him, she gripped and held him from within.

  “Oh, Della, Della...you are a wonder.” He pushed yet deeper, rubbing his face joyously against hers like an affectionate cat. “How good you feel.”

  For a few moments they lay inert, and joined, as if that were enough. Then Wilson gave her a fierce kiss on the soft skin of her throat, and began to swing his narrow, powerful hips in a slow, solid rhythm. Adela matched him, rising reciprocally, arching hard.

  It didn’t last long. She wanted him too much, and the angle he fucked her at was so perfect that a part of her wondered if at some time he’d sat down and calculated the best way to knock against her clitoris and stimulate her with each stroke. She wouldn’t put such a thing past him, and the thought made her giggle even as she hit her crisis and her channel clenched and gripped him even harder. She was half laughi
ng, half moaning through her orgasm, and when she looked up into Wilson’s eyes, and he waggled his dark eyebrows playfully in the very instant before his pale face contorted in ecstasy, she soared again, crying his name and scoring his back with her nails.

  A little while later, he asked, his voice blurred with sleep, “What was so funny? When you were spending?”

  Her limbs still tangled with his, and her nightgown still bunched beneath her arms, Adela stirred, and wondered if she dare speak the truth.

  “I sometimes fancy you’re calculating the angle at which you thrust, for maximum effect, when you’re tupping me. And I thought of it right at that moment and it made me laugh at the same time as my pleasure.”

  Wilson eased his weight off her, and Adela tensed, fighting the urge to hold on tight and prevent him. Any moment now, she’d get a kiss on the brow and he’d be out of bed, in his dressing gown, and on his way to the solitude of his own room. Sometimes, she knew, he even returned to his workshop after lovemaking.

  But not tonight, it seemed. Wilson flopped onto his back, with his arm still draped across her belly. “Well, actually, I have done some anatomical studies...and I have deduced the optimum angle....” His hand moved slowly, in a light, almost unconscious caress.

  “Well, I must admit I’m heartily grateful for that, husband. I commend your scholarship.” She tried to make her voice light, her tone casual, but she was half afraid Wilson would hear the pounding of her heart.

  Was he staying? He seemed to be showing no signs of moving. His dark head looked settled and at peace on her pillow. She hardly dared breathe, in case it disturbed him and he sat up, searching for his robe.

  Then his eyes snapped open, as if he’d felt her watching him. Which he probably had, with his unusually acute senses. “Aren’t you sleepy?” He came up on one elbow, his silver-blue gaze sharpening. “Would you prefer me to leave?”

  Adela could hardly respond. She tugged ineffectually at her tangled nightgown, grappling with it.

  “Here, let me.... Lift up your bottom.” As she complied, Wilson deftly whipped the voluminous garment down beneath her, then smoothed the front of it, too, before arranging the bedcovers neatly over her. Then he gazed down at her again, his eyes intense, as if he were asking his question again, and many more besides.

  “Can I stay, Della?” he said at last. “I think I’ll sleep better...and perhaps you will, too. But the decision is solely yours, my dearest.”

  Dearest?

  Feeling as if she were going to explode, somehow, Adela fabricated an easy smile and patted the pillow at her side. “Of course. Do stay. I think you’re right. We’re both tired and I’m sure we’ll be able to sleep well together. It’s a wide bed and we’re both quite slender, aren’t we?”

  “Indeed we are...indeed we are.” Wilson settled back, still looking at her, still the perfect enigma. Rolling onto his side, he smoothed her hair where some of it had strayed across her cheek. “I’ll turn out the light. Now rest, Della, go to sleep...and try not to fret about Sybil and her letters. We’ll soon have them retrieved and all will be well.”

  He rolled away for a moment, and then the light went out, but Adela could still see his silhouette. He seemed to hesitate a second, then kissed her on the brow and lay down again beside her.

  A few moments ago, sleep had seemed a thousand miles away, but now, suddenly, exhaustion claimed her. She smiled to herself, realizing as she did that for the past half hour or so, she’d not spared a single thought for Sybil’s letters. All she’d had in her mind was Wilson, and his delicious lovemaking, and after that, their future together.

  Turning her head on the pillow, she focused what remained of her senses on her husband’s noble profile, accepting the even sound of his breathing as a good sign, and the very embodiment of “possibilities.”

  And hope.

  26

  The Game’s Afoot

  The next few days were a whirl of preparation for the engagement ball, and Wilson divided his time between work on his secret, mysterious projects for the War Office, and devising a careful plan for the assault on the house of Blair Devine.

  He grinned with approval at Adela’s choice of the heather-brown tweed knickerbocker suit, and darted over, kissed her hard and squeezed her bottom when she tried it on for him. “If I weren’t so pressed for time, I would be compelled to do something about you, you naughty handsome lad. My mind runs on the most wicked perversions, seeing you with those trim breeches clinging to your delightful buttocks.”

  “I must own that similar thoughts have passed through my mind, too,” replied Adela, gasping. The pressure of Wilson’s fingertips was tantalizingly close to her sex as he gripped her. Was he actually shaking?

  “I might have known. You have a wicked mind to match your tempting body, Della, and I promise you, when all this business is over, we shall explore those delightful avenues.” The press of his fingers into her rear groove left her in no doubt of the orientation of said avenues.

  And now that they were sleeping together, there were more opportunities for play.

  After that first night, when he’d not only stayed until morning, but woken her in the small hours for more lovemaking, he’d said nothing more about the situation. But every night he’d come to her room, bare under his robe, then slid into bed beside her. Moments later, they were kissing, exploring each other’s bodies then very soon fucking. Adela was thrilled by these new sleeping arrangements, but sensing Wilson preferred not to make a to-do about it, she remained silent and hugged her contentment to herself.

  As well as the heather suit, there was another costume to be tried on, too—her gown for the ball. Mme Mirielle had excelled herself and produced a magnificent confection of midnight-blue velvet, trimmed with tissue of silver-and-gold embroidery. The clever couturiere had put the garment together at extremely short notice, and even though the rational styling was very simple—a loose-flowing Empire line—the ornamentation must have taken much painstaking work. Adela had gasped at the final price, but when forced to approach Wilson for an addendum to her allowance, he’d pooh-poohed the cost and announced the results of Madame’s labors to be magnificent, and worth twice the price. He’d also suggested that Adela have more gowns made up in a similar style and degree of embellishment.

  “You look very beautiful, Della.” His voice had been strangely rough as he’d surveyed her in the gown. It was necessary he approve it from a technical standpoint, too, for if she were to climb into it quickly after their benevolent but nefarious endeavor, he would have to help her don the gown while they traveled in their coach to the Spencerleigh mansion from Norwood. Luckily in most ways, the two venues were conveniently close by carriage, with fast horses, but it would mean a harum-scarum flurry of disrobing and dressing again in close quarters. A closely confined space that would be rocking from the motion of the horses’ gait.

  “That color is perfect on you. It complements your hair and your eyes. You’ll outshine every other woman in the room.” He twirled her around. “And these simple buttons down the back should be easy to negotiate.” Because the gown was unfitted, there were just a few fastenings at the back. The whole thing could actually be put on over her head, such was the convenience of so modern and sensible a garment. “What shall we do with your hair?” Her husband stroked his fingers over the crown of her head, lingering a little. “Something simple, I think... Loose, with a few strands caught back. And a feather or two, perhaps? Or flowers? No, some kind of clip or comb, I think.”

  Adela suppressed a smile. Who would ever have thought that Wilson would be so well versed in the finer details of a woman’s toilette? Or maybe it was just her toilette? She couldn’t imagine a queen of fashion like Coraline ever letting a man influence her choice of gowns or the arrangement of her hair.

  Or taking the opportunity to accompany her lover on a blatantly illegal escapade.

  He may not love me, but at least he seems to trust me more than she.

  * * *
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  AT LAST, AFTER what seemed like an eternity of time spent in meticulous preparation, in reality barely more than a week, the fateful night arrived. As was hardly surprising, another communication had arrived from the “blackmailer” consenting, with some subtle menaces, to the delay and the alternative offer, so all was set fair for Wilson’s scheme.

  “Better not tell Sybil anything about this endeavor of ours. It’s enough to know that we have the matter in hand. If she knew specifics, she might speak unwisely in a state of anxiousness or anticipation,” said Wilson, as he overlooked the tweed suit set out on her bed, and the dress box containing her blue gown, a wrap, her small evening bag and her dancing slippers. Tucked away beneath the layers of velvet and tissue was the jewelry case containing the Ruffington diamonds.

  Adela agreed. She’d refrained from telling Sybil any details, only assuring her that all would be well. “Quite right, although I believe Marguerite might be trusted, if need be. She’s the most sensible of all the Ruffington women.”

  “Perhaps you’re right....” Wilson sounded thoughtful. “Although I’m sure on the surface, most people have always thought you the sensible one. Yet here you are, about to embark on this mission of high derring-do with me.”

  Don’t you realize that I’d go anywhere with you, my love? Surely, if you’re so clever, you’ve perceived that? And yet, you do nothing to discourage me. I could almost imagine...

  Imagine what? Adela banished her wishful thoughts and focused on Wilson, who was fishing in the pocket of his dressing gown. As she watched, he drew out another blue velvet-covered box, slightly smaller than the one packed with her gown, but still obviously the vessel for some mysterious item of jewelry. It certainly wasn’t any of the very few modest pieces that Adela had brought with her on her marriage.

  “I never purchased you a ring to mark our engagement...and I feel I should have done.” He glanced at her left hand, where she wore only a very simple golden band. “So here is a token of my esteem in its place.” He pursed his lips, tapped the box with his fingers. Was he nervous? “I know you’ve tried out other pins or combs for your hair tonight...but I’d like you to wear these, if they’re suitable for the purpose. They have a very clever fastening, which I devised myself, I might add. We can use them to swiftly fasten back a few tresses in a pleasing style.” Still clutching the box, he reached out again, catching a strand and smoothing it back.