Diamonds in the Rough

Blessedly, he didn’t remark on it, though, and got on with the job of setting the picture strip back in place. On a trial spin, the spinning mechanism worked perfectly, with just a smooth, swishing sound.

“Good Lord!” Wilson’s dark eyebrows shot up and a smirk widened his handsome mouth as the drum whirled round and round, round and round.

The little scenario lasted barely seconds, but that was more than enough to get its point across. The colorful and surprisingly well-executed drawings depicted a red-faced, mustachioed gentleman of military demeanor in the process of spanking the bottom of a plump, brazen-eyed floozy wearing nothing but her stockings and what appeared to be a rather flashy diamond necklace. In a particularly piquant touch, the spanking colonel’s manly member was poking proud and stiff out of the front of his trousers.

I must not look at Wilson. I must not look at Wilson.

Adela fixed her gaze firmly on the saucy show, and the repeated jerking and wriggling of the painted young woman and her rampant regimental beau. If Wilson was to look into her eyes right now, he’d know everything, her every dark secret, instantly. Then the whole scandalous farrago would be out in the open.

Yes, I might look like a drab, severe spinster, and a veteran of too many disastrous seasons...but I’m really just as much a libertine as Miss Spanked Bottom.

Nobody other than Sofia and Beatrice, and the boys at Sofia’s private “establishment,” were privy to Adela’s hidden self-indulgence of her senses. Nor did more than a handful know that she earned her pin money as “Isis,” one of London’s most famous erotic artists, whose works were much sought after by the great and the broad-minded.

Wilson must never, ever know that she paid men to service her...or that she drew their naked bodies to pay her family’s mounting bills.

The picture show circled on and on. The rude gentleman of the prominent member smacked the saucy young minx again and again. Wilson chuckled and leaned in closer, clearly entranced.

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 sake, stay, said her body, singing with lust and energy.

Wilson’s fingers were warm, the heat in them traveling through the point of contact and flowing around her like the glow from a jigger of brandy. She couldn’t pull free. She no longer wanted to. And even if she did, she was hampered by the need to cling on hard to her portfolio.

What if I show him the wretched thing and be done with it? He’ll find a way to see it, anyway. He’s Wilson.

When Wilson kissed her fingertips, the thrill made her tremble.

“Well, it can’t be helped now,” she muttered, and his lips curved again as if he knew that was the most acknowledgment he would get of his scant apology.

Curse the man, he could see the effect he was having on her, and the only consolation was that effects worked both ways. When Adela stole a look at his groin, that was obvious.

Jigger of brandy? Surely she’d consumed a pint of it, but with just the intoxication and none of the detriments. To be desired so could turn any woman’s head, not least of all hers.

Wilson laughed, following the direction of her glance, then nodded toward the portfolio. “So what’s in this, then? More pictures of gentlemen’s nether regions? That seemed to be what you were specializing in last time I saw your work.”

With the words came another pounce. And prestidigitation this time. Wilson plucked the portfolio clean out of her hand, and Adela squeaked and tried to grab it back, without any luck. As he whirled away, his dressing gown billowed about him and he strode toward the desk. The praxinoscope had lost its allure now, and he shoved it aside and set down his prize.

Adela shot after him, her mind filled with the rudest insults. Confound his “sorry.” It’d just been a trick to get under her guard. He was already picking at the ribbons securing the binder. “No! Don’t! That’s private. You have no business prying into people’s belongings.” She tugged at his sleeve, but he just went on, his long tapered fingertips easily conquering the fastenings. “Just because you’re grandfather’s heir doesn’t give you any rights over me and my things. Leave that alone!”

Miraculously, he hesitated, the ribbons unfurled across the desk. He placed a hand over hers, on his shoulder, and his eyes were sly as silver ice as he regarded her sideways. “Why should I? Give me some incentive.” His look made her blood run hot, then cold, then hot again, surging pell-mell through her veins. She wanted to kill him, but at the same time she wanted to lie down on the carpet and demand that he mount her. “Perhaps you could beg?”

Damn you! Damn you to damned damnation and back again, you despicable swine!

“Don’t be absurd, Wilson. I’m simply going to ask you, as a gentleman, to observe my privacy.” His warm hand was still over hers, transmitting messages of sultry seduction, addling her brain.

“But I’m not a gentleman. I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman.” He prized her fingers off his arm and conveyed them to his lips again. The touch of his mouth minced her thoughts, leaving only urges. “Surely you of all people don’t think I’m one?”

“No. I don’t. Not anymore.” For a brief time in their youth, he’d been a prince of the universe to her, its very center. But no longer. Not for years.

His mouth moved over her skin. Was that moisture she felt? Was the lascivious devil licking her? Her entire body shuddered, and only a titanic effort of will kept her from swaying. Instead of feeling Wilson’s tongue against her palm, she seemed to feel its stroke, slow and lingering, between her legs....

She blinked, battling for control. Confused over how she’d come to this. Wilson pivoted on his heel and turned to her, still holding her hand. “How about we strike a bargain? You give me another kiss. A proper one, and a little dalliance with it... And I won’t open this portfolio of yours and look at whatever it is you don’t want me to see.” His eyes were level, daring her to accept, their slow glint ever more disorientating.

Don’t do it, Adela. Don’t agree. You know him. You’ll end up in even worse trouble. The drawings are precisely what he thinks they might be....

Why had she ever come in here in the first place? She had no need of Lord Rayworth’s erotic treasures to inspire her; her imagination was sufficient. And her memory. Her mind was like a photographic plate, and she could develop anything she wanted on it. The ability to conjure images out of air was her great artistic gift.

Adela looked at Wilson’s mouth, knowing she was lost. He was a blackguard, but he excited her more than any other man ever had or probably ever could do. She wanted those lips on hers again, and in other places, too. Zones they’d never actually explored in real life, but which cried out for him now. His eyes didn’t look quite so silver currently; the pupils were huge, dark as a thunderhead, with a lightning-crack of promise in their depths, an intensity of desire that matched her own.

“What dalliance? What do you mean?” Oh, she was such a fool....

“Don’t fret. Nothing too compromising, Della. Just a few pleasant moments, I promise...pleasure I owe you.” He smiled at her, a very imp of mischief and devilment, exotic yet familiar.

She didn’t trust him. She couldn’t trust him. He’d been incorrigible seven years ago, and she had no reason to believe from their brief social meetings in the interim that he’d reformed even in the slightest degree.

“I don’t believe you, Wilson. You’ll take liberties. It’s what you do.” She tried to tug away, but couldn’t. His knowledge of Oriental fighting arts meant he knew special arcane grips that were light yet unyielding. And even without them, his eyes would still have held her.

“But you liked liberties once, Della. In fact, you invited them.” It was his turn to tug now, and as if drugged, she moved toward him. “Surely you’ve not forgotten what we shared? I promise I’ll honor your secrets.” He glanced at the portfolio, and the fingers of his free hand flexed. “All of them.”

“You’re a devious and manipulative man, Wilson,” she hissed, and then flung herself at him, grabbing his warm face between her hands and kissing him hard on the lips.

Well, that’s one way to distract him, the rational part of her brain observed coolly, while all the rest of her reveled in his taste.

But Wilson’s soft grunt of triumph as she opened her mouth to him almost made her retreat again. She’d got him right where he wanted to be, and before she could react, his hands slid around her, gripping her tight. He was still scheming, but at least for the moment his hands were on her, not the portfolio. She let her own arms slide right around him, clinging close, her blood pounding and racing in her veins.

Oh, Lord, this is Wilson.... Wilson...

Everything always circled back to him. He’d made her what she was, a sensual woman with turbulent erotic appetites. Seven years ago, he’d turned a lever and set lust in motion, and even though they’d fallen out again almost as quickly as they’d clung together, she hadn’t given up on the pleasures of the flesh.

Wilson Ruffington was the author, albeit unwitting, of a wicked secret life.

4

More Wicked than you Could Possibly Imagine

But there was no time to think of that moment of transformation now. In the perilous present, Wilson’s tongue probed her mouth just as it had during their first hot kiss, the wicked muscular thrust aping that other thrust, that other wonderful hot, wet, hard intrusion. The possession she still wanted, and still wanted from him. Ignoring the murmuring voices of reason and tediously pervasive doubts about her reputation, she pressed her body against him as hard as she could, rocking her pelvis against his in a primal rhythm.

He was still hard, unyielding as the oak of the door and the desk and the mighty trees in the park beyond the window. She could feel the heat of him through all their layers of clothing.

“Oh, Della, my Della, how you still rouse me,” he growled against her neck, his lips nibbling her skin just above the little collar of her gown. With one hand still gripping her bottom through her skirt and petticoats, he set the other to the task of unfastening the row of jet buttons down the front of her bodice. As ever, he was quicker and defter than any man had a right to be, but his manual dexterity had always matched his rare intelligence.

Adela tried not to think, because if she did, she’d deem herself too idiotic to be allowed to live. All that mattered was to feel and savor experience while she could. Her own hands ranged over what parts of Wilson she could reach, diving into his tousled, silky hair and stroking his strong back beneath the patterned fabric of his eccentric dressing gown. It was only fair that he should be revealed, just as she was, and as he rested her on the edge of the desk while he attacked her bodice, she snatched at his shirt and wrenched and pulled at his buttons.

“Yes!” Wilson paused in his efforts, dashed her hands away and ripped at his shirt himself, rending it open. It was a buttoned garment, unfastening all the way down in the new American style, and the little discs flew everywhere as he bared himself almost to the waist. Conveying her hand to his body, he pressed it against his skin and the wispy peppering of dark hair across the center of his chest.

When Adela dug her nails in, he laughed.

“You’re a wicked woman, Della, though no doubt I deserve the punishment.” Dashing her hand away again, he returned his attention to the front of her gown.

You do not know the half of it, cousin dear. I’m more wicked than you could possibly imagine. For a moment, Adela thought of other men, other chests.

Manipulating ribbons and buttons and hooks, Wilson managed to get at what he sought. She groaned when he wedged a hand inside the top of her corset by force and cupped her breast. She was slightly formed, and he cradled the entire curve, his thumb settling on her nipple as if he owned her very flesh. It might have been only yesterday when he’d last rubbed her this way and made her squirm. Instead of seven long years, during which lately she’d been compelled to seek other hands.

“You’re beautiful...so beautiful.” Given the length of the statement, and the long burning look he gave her, Adela almost believed him. Then reality returned, bringing with it her harsh little laugh. She wasn’t beautiful, and he was a liar, an unrepentant sweet-talker of women. No doubt that woman demanded the tribute of pretty words and compliments as a right, but Adela Ruffington preferred the truth, unadorned.

“Don’t insult me.” She narrowed her eyes at him, even while she closed her hand over his. She wasn’t lovely. She was flawed. But she still had needs, and as Wilson had stirred them, both then and now, it was his responsibility to assuage them.

“Don’t start that again.” He tightened his hand on her breast, his fingers and thumb ruthless. He trapped her nipple between them, creating a twinge of pain among the pleasure, a bright, intense shard that darted instantly from her breast to her belly. Between her legs, her sex pulsed in a warm ripple.

“Start what?”

His fingers twisted, lightly pinching. Pleasure-pain.

“Denying your beauty. I won’t have it. You are lovely, and I’ll punish you if you persist in denying it, believe me.”

Adela could barely breathe. A threshold loomed before her, a line beyond which lay a delicious peril, the dark, sensual play only hinted at by the brash lovers in the praxinoscope reel. It wasn’t an entirely unknown country to her, but she was almost certain Wilson wouldn’t realize that.

The frolicsome pair in the moving pictures were far from the first she’d seen engage in a spanking game. She’d seen it in the flesh...and felt it, too.

“You can’t order me what to feel, Wilson. Even if we’d been the most intimate of friends for the last seven years, I still wouldn’t obey you.”

They were a pair of mythical beasts head to head in a battle. Adela wouldn’t give in, and she knew Wilson wouldn’t, either. He had the upper hand at present, though—and it was on her breast, squeezing and plying wicked pleasure.

“Liars should be punished.” His low, menacing voice made her wriggle just as much as his tormenting fingertips did. “And when you say you’re not beautiful, you are lying.”

“I’m not!”

“You are to me, and to any right-thinking man with even a scrap of discernment.” He shot forward, grabbing the back of her neck with his free hand and jamming his mouth down on hers, tongue stabbing again for entrance. At the same time he pinched her nipple hard, making her gasp, and allowing him access between her lips.

Wilson kissed like a marauder, like a brigand, forcing her back against the edge of the desk, tweaking her nipple, plucking at it repeatedly as he thrust over and over with his tongue. Adela felt pins slipping from her half-collapsed chignon as his fingers held her head unrelentingly.

You’re an animal, Wilson. A pirate. A wicked despoiler of women... Please don’t stop.

Her jaw ached by the time he freed her and gazed into her eyes from the closest of quarters. His own eyes were as pale and silvery as ever around the periphery, but at the center his pupils were black and dilated with lust. “I’m going to punish you, Della,” he breathed, the exhalation sweet and spicy against her face. “Just like that naughty little girlie in the praxinoscope reel. I’m going to smack your gorgeous bottom and make you squeal. And then you’re going to damn well admit that you’re lovely, do you hear me?”

“Do what the devil you want, Wilson, but I won’t lie.” She held his gaze, the pit of her belly trembling. Wicked urges rattled around inside her, wild and uncontained, despite his hold on her. She wanted to haul up her skirts and bare herself to him, challenging him to do his worst, inviting him to plunge into her as he’d once done, taking her breath away.

“Oh, I’ll do what I want, don’t you worry. But you are a liar.”

Pausing only to give her tender nipple one last twist, he dragged his hand out of her bodice and grabbed hold of her skirts without further ado. Taking the voluminous layers of bombazine and flannel and cambric in an untidy grip, he hauled them up, tugging and bunching until he’d exposed her stockings and her garters and her drawers. The latter were old-fashioned; Adela had other calls upon her funds than the latest styles in pretty new unmentionables, and precious little to spend on presentable gowns to go over them. Wilson uttered a happy grunt when he discovered the split that gave him access to her body.

“Oh, I love these. All women should wear these convenient old things. It makes a man’s job so much easier, especially when he’s in a hurry.”