Diamonds in the Rough

What was the fellow up to? Dancing attendance on Mama. Offering her more lemonade, even as Adela watched, and inducing almost as much eyelash batting as Sybil was currently indulging in. There was something not quite pukka about Devine’s smooth, handsome style, even though he’d fit right in to the house party, and seemed to be on friendly terms already with a number of the other guests. His modus operandi wasn’t obvious, or particularly flashy, but it, and the man himself still bothered her. She’d tried to be polite to him, nevertheless, for Mama’s sake, as had her sisters. Sybil probably liked him, anyway, because she was amendable to all comers, especially good-looking young men, but Adela had sensed that Marguerite, their youngest, shared her own misgivings. The baby of the family was wise beyond her years, but luckily for her, a little too young for a potential match with Blair Devine.

Well, if you plan to direct your attentions to me eventually, sir, you can think again. I’d rather marry that accursed monster Wilson than you!

And back to Wilson again. Ever thus. Their cousin, both relative and nemesis. Mama swung wildly between poles where he was concerned. One day she heaped complaints upon him for being the unwitting recipient of their grandfather’s riches and title, in the absence of a closer male relative. The next, she hinted and wheedled and schemed, still deluding herself, despite Adela’s vociferous protests, that a marriage between her eldest daughter and the future Lord Millingford was both desirable and a strong possibility.

It will never occur, Mama. You would have done better to fling Sybil at him, or even Marguerite at a pinch. Not me.

But Sybil was interested only in dresses and hair ribbons and her handsome but rather dim Viscount Framley. She and Wilson were like two different species, who spoke different languages. Marguerite’s astute intellect was something that Wilson would probably admire, but she was still only thirteen years old.

Feeling as if her brain was whirling, Adela turned from the window again and began pulling what pins were left from her sorely disarranged coiffure. Her mother would most certainly have a “turn” if she discovered that Wilson had compromised her daughter, but she’d recover like lightning and be delirious with happiness if it meant there might be a marriage.

But I’ve been compromised these seven years, Mama. Much good it has done us.

Unable to settle, even though she was suddenly exhausted, Adela paced the room, touching familiar items brought from home as talismans: her hairbrush, a bottle of smelling salts, the little glass jar containing her favorite cold cream.

Curse the man, when he gave something, even the slightest hint, she always wanted more. Her body was racked with odd, unsettled sensations. Familiar ones. One she’d experienced within the hour. Ones she’d experienced, just as keenly, seven years ago.

Get out of my head, Wilson!

Impossible, though. He’d never left. Not really. The image she saw now was of the younger man, the provocative friend with whom she’d tramped through the willow wood at Ruffington Hall and taken that fateful dip in the river.

In those brief, halcyon days, Wilson had been simply a remote relative on a summer visit, one who just happened to be there at the same time as her family. He’d not been the heir to the family title then, not even close. With Papa still alive, and Mama young and healthy and eager for more offspring of their fond and uxorious union, a long-awaited brother for their three daughters had still been a strong possibility. And even with none forthcoming, another cousin, Henry, was next in line to be Lord Millingford.

But Adela had been fascinated, even enraptured by her blindingly brilliant cousin Wilson, by his beauty and his peculiarity both. On a hot day, they’d crept away from formal tea on the lawn, and the rather sedate and yawn-inducing tennis match being played by several of the guests.

And then her life as she’d known it had changed forever....

7

Seven Years Past

Ruffington Hall, Summer 1884

“Let’s go and take a splash in the river, eh, Della? Are you game?” Wilson had said, those silver-blue eyes of his glinting. “At least it’ll give you something new to draw.” He grinned, nodding at the portfolio she was carrying, that she always carried. She’d refused to show him her work, but knew he was determined to see it.

“What do you mean?” Adela ignored his remark about the portfolio, concentrating on Wilson’s challenge. She had a shrewd idea what he was really suggesting, with his “splash.” Wilson liked to be as shocking as he was clever. Already half in love with him, she couldn’t resist the challenge. She’d follow and to the devil with the consequences.

Low-hanging branches and ground-hugging brambles caught at her skirts as she trudged after Wilson through the wood, planning to catch hold of his dressing gown and slow him down if she could. She couldn’t imagine why he wore it, except to promote his image as an eccentric academic. For her own part—despite her mama’s frantic protests of impropriety—she’d left off her corset and her bustle and two of her petticoats. It was just too oppressive to be trussed up on a summer day, and being slight of build, she didn’t think anybody but her mother would be aware of the deficiency. Her white garden dress with its pretty green sash was so comfortable with fewer layers beneath, and it was much easier to sit without all that stupid paraphernalia beneath her skirt.

Not that white was ideal for an arboreal expedition. Mud quickly caked both her hem and her shoes, but the exhilaration of defying all chaperonage, and the dizzy, delicious feeling she always experienced in Wilson’s presence made it seem as if she were floating along the path behind him.

All she could think about was seeing him “splashing.” All she could hope was that he’d strip off his clothing to do it. She’d grown impatient with anatomy treatises and classical statuary. She wanted to draw a real man at last. And more...

“Slow down, Wilson. This path’s uneven and I’ll trip if we keep up this absurd pace. We don’t have to flee. Nobody noticed us leave, and I doubt that anyone’s missed us yet.”

Wilson stopped short and Adela cannoned into him. Just as she’d feared, she tripped and lost her footing.

Strong arms caught her and held her, quelling any unconscious urge to struggle. Wilson was wild and unpredictable, yet hugged close against his body like this, she still felt safe. His chest was warm and firm where she leaned against it, and on touching the fine lawn of his loose white shirt, she discovered he wore no undergarment beneath.

“Steady on, Della.” There was a laugh in his voice, and it dawned on Adela that her touch had been more voracious than she’d realized. Nothing less than a fervent exploration of his musculature.

She shot back, nearly tripping again, but this time he caught her chastely by the arms. Her heart beat wildly and she wasn’t sure what she wanted. Wilson’s smug, twinkling eyes made her want to thump him with her fists, and yet do other things, too. Sensations surged through her body, ones she knew that a proper young woman must never admit to feeling.

But I’m not proper, and I’m not like other young women.

Or perhaps all her sex felt the same? And every woman was hiding passion beneath her layers and layers of petticoats?

“What is it, Della?” His silvery eyes narrowed, as if he were monitoring her very thoughts with his analytical scrutiny, but just as she was about to protest about his staring at her, he smiled and gave her a friendly little shake. “Come on, old thing. The river awaits and I’m dying for a dip. It’s so hot!”

“If you’re so hot, why are you wearing your dressing gown?” Adela aimed the question at his back as he turned and set off along the path again. Wilson just laughed and continued on ahead.

Between the trees, the glitter of sun on water was their goal, and the air felt fresher, less vegetal and moldy.

“Here we are,” Wilson cried as they burst forth out of the trees and into a little dell that hugged the edge of the river. It was secret and idyllic, the sort of place where fairies might peep out from among the water plants. The sort of place where wonders might occur.

“How beautiful!” There was magic enough without the fairies, though. A palpable excitement in the air, despite the superficial tranquility, as if the flowing water itself was generating energy. “I never knew about this spot.” It was true; she’d explored the grounds of Ruffington Hall before, escaping Mama, but never found this place. Trust Wilson to know it was here.

“Yes, it’s special, isn’t it?” His voice was quiet, and he sounded wistful. But when she turned to him, he was looking at her, a challenging expression on his face.

“Well, I think I shall do a little sketching,” Adela announced. She mustn’t let her cousin rattle her. Best to go calmly about her own business. But where to sit, wearing a gown of white, without getting mud or dust or plant stains upon it? She could hardly stand the whole time while she was drawing.

Wilson whipped off his dressing gown in a whirl of silk and set it down on the grass in a little patch of shade. “Better not to sit in full sunlight, Della. I’ve been reading some studies into the effect of sunlight on human tissue, and I believe long exposure may prove harmful to delicate complexions.” He patted the robe, making it flat for her. “Your skin is exceptionally smooth and fine, so you really should take the best care of it. I could formulate an emollient preparation for you, if you like?”

“Um...yes, thank you. That would be very kind....”

This was typical Wilson. A pretty compliment combined with scientific instruction. Or maybe he was just trying to butter her up? So he could take liberties.

Ah, but you want that, don’t you? The liberties...

The voice of wisdom jabbed at her. She knew what she wanted, and knew she was a fool to want it. Yet still she couldn’t suppress her yearning. She caught her breath when Wilson swiftly undid the buttons of his shirt, then whipped the thing off over his head.

“Right then, it’s a dip for me.” Flinging his shirt away, he revealed his bare chest and shoulders, so smooth and well shaped. Adela’s eyes skittered to the fastenings of his summer flannel trousers, and she wondered what lay beneath them. Was it drawers or just Wilson?

Her cousin laughed. As usual, he seemed to have guessed what she was thinking.

“You’ll have to wait and see.” Waggling his dark eyebrows at her, he threw himself down on the grass, just a foot or two away from her, and attacked the laces of his boots.

Adela applied herself to her portfolio, but even with the green bounty of the natural world around her, and a freshly sharpened pencil, the blank page remained unsullied. She was trying not to look at Wilson, and failing abjectly.

He flung away his boots and socks, then stood again. Turning directly toward her, in a blatant challenge, he slowly and teasingly unbuttoned his trousers and let them drop. Then laughed when Adela looked away.

Wilson was wearing drawers, but they were summer-weight ones, reaching only to his knees. Adela didn’t get much chance to admire their style, though, because before she could protest, he was slipping them off, too. She turned resolutely away from him and studied a small white flower growing a few inches from where she was sitting, a bloom of delicate beauty and frailty.

“Not interested in human anatomy, then?”

The temptation to look at him had the force of the fast-flowing stream beside them, and all its inevitability. Her neck ached from the effort of not swiveling in his direction. “I’m very interested in anatomy, just not yours, Wilson. I’m fully conversant with the male form. I’ve studied many great works of art.”

His laugh rang out, lusty and free. It was a happy sound, but it made her clench her teeth. She was always a source of amusement to him, and yet she couldn’t stop seeking his company.