Portia Costa - Diamonds in the Rough

Wilson turned the handle and pushed open the door to find his lady in black standing in front of a broad, leather-topped desk. On it stood what appeared to be a rather substantial but badly balanced praxinoscope, if he wasn’t mistaken, and as she whipped around, she snatched her hand back and the thing slowed to a halt.

“Oh! It’s you! I might have known.”

2

Cousin Dearest

The familiar low, well-modulated voice expressed only mild surprise, as if Adela had been expecting him.

Wilson scowled, even though he’d not meant to. An expression of displeasure at this stage only gave her the advantage. But then, she had that already. She’d probably known he was here somewhere. That dratted mother of hers had probably dragged her here precisely for that reason.

“Indeed it is me, cousin dearest. And I assume you’ve been expecting me? I’ll wager your mother, at least, knows I’m here.”

A pair of large, fine brown eyes, almost exactly the rich walnut hue of her sliding, disarranged hair, glared back at him, stormy with suspicion. She didn’t like their family situation any better than he. In fact, she had far more reason not to.

Adela didn’t like him, either, and in his heart of hearts, he didn’t blame her. He’d crushed her tender feelings underfoot on more than one occasion now. He had a God-given talent for saying the first stupid and often callous-sounding thing that came into his head, much to his self-disgust. Even if he didn’t always mean it. Well, even if he didn’t completely mean it.

“Indeed she does, cousin Wilson, indeed she does.” Adela’s emphasis on the word was a facetious rebuttal of any kind of endearment. They barely were cousins at all, when it came to it, their genealogy far more of a division than a bond. “Since Father died, one of her dearest wishes and perennial goals in life is to accidentally hurl the two of us together.” Adela straightened her spine, almost visibly squaring her firm but narrow shoulders, as if ready to gird on a heavy suit of armor. “But what with our mourning, and your famously clever knack of ignoring and/or regretting our very existence, opportunities for collision have been like hen’s teeth. When the countess took pity on us and invited us here, Mama nearly had an apoplexy, she was so thrilled to see you on the guest list.”

“And what did you have?” Irrational anger made his tongue sharp. Her clear lack of pleasure in seeing him again was no surprise, but it still made him want to break something. At least she could have feigned a smile for form’s sake.

And with a sweet, lush mouth like hers, even the faintest smile was a breathtaking phenomenon.

Dark eyes narrowed. “I experienced a distinct desire not to crash into you, yet now, despite my best efforts, here we are.”

“You could have declined Rayworth’s invitation.” It would have been easy enough to claim some unspecified female malady.

Her stare was a basilisk’s venomous dismissal, disdaining him, discarding him utterly. Did she feel no warmth at all? If not affection, then not even the slightest twinge of the baser, more animal emotions? “One can’t cut off one’s nose to spite one’s face. I had hoped that I could avoid you as much as possible, while still accepting. It would have broken Mama’s heart to deny her at least a shred of optimism. She’d rather live on hope than face the truth.”

Adela was steely, but for a few fractions of a second, the way she bit her full, pink lower lip betrayed her. Likewise her narrow white hand twisting a fold of her gown. The contrast between the creamy pallor of her skin and the dull sheen of the black fabric was intoxicating. Unable to stop himself, Wilson imagined her in the kind of black satin boudoir garments that Coraline had so favored, and his wayward cock kicked again, hard, in his trousers.

Anger kicked, too, but not at his cousin. He actually felt enraged at the memory of Coraline for distracting him, as if she’d stepped into the room and interrupted this sparring match. Yet her presence seemed strangely indistinct.... He should have felt regret over his former mistress, but her image was blurred, like an inexpertly developed photograph.

The vision of his second cousin twice removed, however, was sharp as a razor. And despite the fact that the real woman was still scowling at him, the mental image of Adela Felicia Ruffington clad in a black corset trimmed with red lace and ribbons was delectable, and made him want to touch himself. And her.

Yes, you’d look very handsome in a few scraps of expensive frou-frou, Della. Very handsome indeed.

“You should be out in society, Della. Just because your mother’s prepared to sacrifice you to me in order to save her fortunes and those of your butterfly sisters, that shouldn’t stop you from having a little fun.”

Adela drew in a slow deep breath, clearly sifting through a selection of sarcastic words with which to lash him. The action made her bosom lift, pushing her delicate curves against the confines of her hidden corset. Wilson’s private fantasy of ribbons and black satin grew yet more agonizing in the area of his loins.

Adela was a slim woman, but she had a shape. A beautiful wood nymph’s shape, and just once, for one blessed idyllic afternoon, he’d had his eager hands on it.

“Well, I thank you for your sage opinions on the subject of my welfare, Wilson.” She inclined her head like some wily bird, assessing him. And not with favor. Wilson could see columns and tallies, and far too many negative ticks stacked up against him. Suddenly his own affected eccentricity, which usually secretly amused him, wasn’t quite as satisfying anymore. He clenched his fists in the folds of his dressing gown, to stop his fingers from raking through his unruly hair in an effort to tidy it. He wished he’d made an effort to conform, and that he could change his lurid waistcoat for something more elegant and sober, and his silk dressing gown for a well-cut frock coat. His maverick attire did not find favor with his cousin. Her perfectly arched eyebrows spoke volumes.

“But for my part,” she went on, her exquisite hauteur and proud deportment making her appear far more entitled to a deluxe life and aristocratic status than he’d ever be, “it’s not the end of the world if the Ruffington assets go to you on the Old Curmudgeon’s death. Grandfather has his reasons, and we’ll make the best of the hand we’ve been dealt. Mama and the girls and I will manage, even if we have to take in washing. And if the worse did come to the worst, I can’t believe that even you would throw us out on the street. Our parasitical status notwithstanding.”

Will I never be allowed to forget that?

Certain ill-thought remarks, made on the occasion of their last meeting, were impossible to expunge. Adela still hated him for them, and he couldn’t blame her. He had been nasty. With much on his mind at the time, a moment’s lapse of concentration had led him to say vile things about Mrs. Ruffington, and all subsequent halfhearted attempts to retract had only made things worse.

But being instructed—in a letter from her mother—that he really ought to marry Adela, because the assets and riches of her grandfather, Augustus Ruffington, Lord Millingford, were rightfully hers, had made him see red. In cooler moments, he knew that the Old Curmudgeon was being callous and cruel to his daughter-in-law and granddaughters. But receiving this commandment while Coraline was being particularly capricious, and with memories of his own mother’s emotional manipulations still keen, Wilson had lashed out at Adela when they’d encountered each other at the New Gallery not long after.

No, calling her mother “a presumptuous, overbearing parasite with ridiculous notions of entitlement” had not endeared him to Adela, making an already prickly relationship into a veritable porcupine of resentment and enmity.