“You should plan on being here for the derby next year,” John pleasantly said, urbanely shifting topics. “Shalizar’s going to win by ten lengths. You can bet on it.”
“In that case,” Jamie drawled, “I shall—heavily.”
“As will I. A pity you don’t have time to see my stud at Bellingham.”
“Next time. I promised Davey I’d meet him day after tomorrow. He’s coming down from the hills to meet me.”
The two men, long friends—their family resemblance clear despite their disparate coloring—went on to discuss the merits of various horses and trainers, bloodlines and jockeys. The quiet study was peaceful, a temporary hermitage in a quarrelsome, perilous world, and the fine Highland whiskey served its purpose well in lessening Jamie’s disquiet. Neither touched on the serious or personal, both careful to keep the conversation companionable, and toward dawn, cheerfully drunk, the two men parted ways.
John went upstairs to his wife.
Jamie strolled to Grosvenor Square, entered a large house through a back door, conveniently unlocked, took the servants’ stairs to the second floor, and entered a shadowed bedchamber.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” Isabella drowsily murmured, gazing at Jamie from under her lashes.
“I said I would.” Quietly closing the door, he slipped off his swallowtail coat, dropped it on the floor, and pulling his shirt studs free, moved toward the bed.
“How nice.” Pushing up on her elbows, Isabella smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met an honest man.”
Jamie grinned. “I have an excuse. I live outside the fashionable world.”
“Too far outside at the moment,” she purred, tossing the covers aside. “Do come in . . .”
CHAPTER 2
THE NEXT MORNING, the air heavy with the promise of rain, Sofia Eastleigh was cooling her heels in a small drawing room off the entrance hall of Minton House and becoming increasingly agitated. She didn’t as a rule agree to paint society portraits, finding those in the fashionable world too spoiled or difficult to sit the necessary hours required to complete a painting. But Isabella, Countess of Minton, was one of the reigning beauties of the day—not to be discounted when it came to publicity—and she was generous as well in terms of a fee.
She’d give her five minutes more, Sofia resentfully decided, and then the countess and her money could go to hell. With her artwork much sought after, Sofia didn’t need the money. Nor did she appreciate being kept waiting like a servant for—she glanced at the splendid Boulle clock on the mantel—damn it . . . thirty-five minutes!
Rising to her feet, she was slipping on her gloves when the drawing room door was thrown open by a liveried flunkey, Isabella was announced, and a moment later, a radiant, blushing countess, obviously just risen from bed, swept into the room, trailing lavender mousseline and a cloud of scent.
“Good, you’re still here. A matter of some importance delayed me.”
The countess’s partner in that important matter strolled into the room behind her and offered Sofia an engaging smile. “I’m sorry you had to wait. Please, accept my apology. Bella tells me you’re an artist of great renown.”
“The baron will keep me company while you paint,” the countess briskly interposed, ignoring Jamie’s apology. “We’re quite ready if you are.”
Understanding that Bella viewed an artist as a trades person, consequently not due the courtesies, Jamie introduced himself. “You’re Miss Eastleigh, I presume. James Blackwood at your service.”
Even with her temper in high dudgeon, Sofia couldn’t help but think, Wouldn’t it be grand to be serviced by a big, handsome brute like you. The man was splendid—tall, dark, powerfully muscled, and all male, with the languid gait of a panther and the green eyes to match. Now there was a portrait worth painting. She’d portray him as he was, casually dressed in the remnants of last night’s evening rig, his dark hair in mild disarray. He wore a cambric shirt and black trousers, the shirt open at the neck, his long, muscular legs shown to advantage in welltailored wool, his feet bare in his evening shoes.
A faint carnal tremor raced through her senses.
Commonplace and not in the least disconcerting.
She found handsome men attractive and in many cases, useful.
A modern woman, a bohemian in terms of cultural mores, Sofia enjoyed lovemaking. But on her terms. She decided if a man suited her; she decided when and if to make love and whether to continue a relationship—mostly she didn’t, preferring men as transient diversions in her life. Although, for a gorgeous animal like Blackwood, she might be inclined to alter her rules and keep him for a time. He had the look of a man who was more than capable of satisfying a woman. And the fact that the countess—who had a reputation for dalliance—was obviously captivated by him was testament to his competence.
Taking jealous note of Sofia’s admiring gaze, for a brief moment Isabella debated canceling the sitting. On second thought, the pale, slender artist was hardly the type of woman to appeal to Jamie, who preferred women of substance who could keep up with him in bed. The little painter looked as though a good wind would blow her away. “Come, Miss Eastleigh,” Isabella crisply commanded. “I have another appointment after your sitting.”
Following the women from the waiting room, Jamie contemplated the stark differences between the two beauties, the lively contrasts of blonde femininity intriguing. Miss Eastleigh was slender with hair the color of sunshine on snow, her pale loveliness poetic and ethereal—like an Arthurian Isolde who might bruise with the slightest touch. Isabella, on the other hand, didn’t bruise at all, as he well knew after two days of wild, untrammeled sex. Bella’s golden splendor was that of a robust flesh-and-blood Valkyrie, passionate, impatient, demanding. He understood why Charlie preferred his sweet, young mistress in Chelsea from time to time if for no other reason than to rest.
A few minutes later, they entered the small conservatory where Sofia had set up her easel. Isabella disposed herself on the chaise in David’s Madame Recamier pose, waved Jamie into a chair opposite her, and sweetly cajoling, murmured, “Darling, tell me how I might tempt you to stay. Surely, your Highlands can wait for a day or so.” She spoke as if Sofia didn’t exist. “And don’t say you must go immediately because you don’t when you’re here for an entire fortnight.”
“If Davey wasn’t coming down from the hills to meet me, I could change my plans, but it’s a long, rough trek for him. It wouldn’t be fair to waste his time.”
“He’s your gillie for heaven’s sake. Send him a telegram. He can wait for you in Inverness for a day or so.”
“We can talk about this later,” he quietly said.
“Why? Oh, you think Miss Eastleigh is mindful. Of course she isn’t.” A duke’s daughter would, of course, hold such an opinion; servants were invisible.
“That’s enough, Bella.”
The countess offered her lover a sultry smile. “Will you beat me if I don’t obey?”
“Of course not.”
He spoke with soft restraint, but something in his tone apparently struck home, for the countess said with a complacent sigh, “Very well. You must always have your way.” She smiled. “For which I’ve been extremely grateful on any number of occasions, my masterful darling.”
“Are you quite done?”
“I suppose I must be with you frowning so. Was Vicky pleased last night that you finally arrived?” She knew when to be accommodating, particularly with Jamie. While they shared mutual pleasures, he wasn’t in the least enamored or adoring like so many of her lovers.
“Vicky was very pleasant,” he said, relieved Bella was finally minding her manners. “John’s a lucky man.”
“His wife is lucky as well. You and your cousin share a certain charming expertise. I was surprised when he married.”
“He’s in love.”
“You don’t say. How quaint.”
“It happens.”
“But fortunately not to you”—she smiled—“or me.�
��
“Could we talk about something else?” Or not talk at all?
“Of course, darling. Did you hear that Georgie Tolliver left his wife for his children’s governess? Isn’t that droll?” At which point, Bella lapsed into a gossipy discussion of their various acquaintances who were involved in affaires of one kind or another—the favorite amusement of the aristocracy.
Sliding down on his spine, his eyes half shut, Jamie replied in a desultory fashion to her comments. He was tired; two days of carnal sport and little sleep had taken its toll.
Bella seemed not to notice, absorbed as she was in her frivolous recital, or perhaps she was simply content to have Jamie near.
It was like watching a bored animal, Sofia thought as she captured the countess’s pretty features on the canvas, Countess Minton’s lover politely biding his time, listening with half an ear to the countess’s chatter, appearing to doze off on occasion. Although, apparently, he didn’t, for he always managed to respond when required. Politely. With a cultivated civility at variance with his lassitude. He’d open his eyes and answer even the most banal queries with good humor.
The conservatory armchairs were gilded faux bamboo, the attenuated metal dangerously light for a man his size.
Would or wouldn’t the chair collapse beneath his weight?
Would he or wouldn’t he actually fall asleep? Sofia wondered as if she were somehow his keeper. Or the countess’s. As if either of them cared what she thought when they apparently dealt very well together.
Wresting her gaze from the stunning couple, Sofia curtailed her contemplation of the two lovers and applied herself to her work.
And so the sitting progressed, Bella chattering, Mr. Blackwood largely inanimate, Sofia finishing the depiction of the countess’s large blue eyes and beginning to sketch in her nose with quick, sure strokes. Having defined the shape to her satisfaction, she was gathering a dab of pale pink paint from her palette for the highlights when the door to the conservatory abruptly opened.
A stylish young lady dressed in ruffled, beribboned white muslin burst in, using her parasol to shove aside a flustered servant who’d arrived in her wake.
“Your man, Walters, wasn’t going to let me in, Bella,” she irritably proclaimed, casting a censorious glance on the innocent footman who’d followed her on the butler’s orders. “I knew perfectly well that you were at home with Jamie in town.” She swung around in a rustle of silk. “Hello, Jamie, darling.” Her smile was both dazzling and gloating; she’d successfully run her fox to ground. “You’re looking utterly gorgeous as usual. Do give me a kiss.”
While the countess scowled, Lady Winterthur, flushed with triumph, swiftly advanced on her prey, her parasol swinging from her wrist. “I should be in a pet with you, darling,” she sweetly said with feigned chagrin. “You didn’t stop by to see me.”
James Blackwood had come to his feet before the lovely brunette reached him and, taking her hands in his, suavely saved himself from her embrace. Bending, he bestowed the requested kiss, held her at arm’s length, and smoothly lied. “I’m just passing through London or I would have called.”
“Since you’ve chosen to disturb our sitting, do sit down at least, Lily,” Bella ordered, anxious to separate her rival from her lover. “And don’t distract the painter,” she said with annoyance. “We are under a time constraint. I have another appointment after this.”
Taking a seat next to Jamie, Lily Chester slanted a sly glance at the countess. “How perfect! I’ll take Jamie off your hands then. We’ll find something to do to amuse ourselves, won’t we, darling?” she brightly said, smiling at her quarry.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Bella snapped. “He’s staying here!”
“Ladies, I prefer not being handed around like a Sacher torte,” Jamie drily said. “I’m off to Scotland at five in any event.”
“What a shame. We won’t have time to play,” Lily murmured. “You’ve been terribly selfish, Bella,” she chided, turning on her hostess, “keeping him all to yourself.” She glanced at Jamie, her gaze openly avaricious. “Perhaps on your return to London, darling, we could share a moment or two.”
“We’re done here,” the countess rapped out, her color high.
It was unclear to whom she was speaking, until she rose from the chaise and dismissed Sofia with a flick of her fingers. “Really, Lily, have you no shame?” she hissed, turning a vengeful eye on her guest. “Do I intrude when you have company? We are done, Miss Eastleigh,” she repeated, sharply.
“She’s putting her brushes away, Bella. Be civil.” Rising from his chair, Jamie walked toward Sofia, stopping just short of her easel. “Ignore her,” he softly said. “May I help?”
“Thank you, no,” Sofia replied, wiping her brushes. “This will take just a minute.” Dropping her brushes one by one into a jar of turpentine, she closed the lid on her paint box.
“I apologize for them both.”
“You needn’t. I’m familiar with—”
“Outspoken females?”
He’d formed the word bitches, Sofia noticed, but changed his mind. “Yes,” she said, giving her hands a last wipe.
He nodded toward the painting. “The likeness is superb.” “The countess is very beautiful.”
He smiled faintly. “Let me see you to the door. I’ll be right back, Bella,” he called out, ignoring his lover’s scowl, offering Sofia his arm.
As they exited the room, he said, “My apologies again. Lily is always troublesome, and Bella is—well, Bella. She’s a spoiled child.”
“And yet?” Sofia shot him an amused glance, the faint scent of the countess’s costly perfume lingering on his clothes.
He grinned. “I have no excuse. Have you been painting long? You’re very good.”
“All my life if you count amateur efforts. Both my parents are artists.”
“Ah. That explains it then. My forebears were all soldiers.”
“That explains it then,” she said, echoing him. “You have a powerful physical presence. As an artist, I notice such things.”
He could have said most women noticed his size, but on his best behavior, he said, instead, “I hope Bella’s paying you well for her discourtesy.”
“Yes, very well. I’m quite content, and no offense, but I don’t really listen to women like her. Aristocratic women are entirely wanting in occupation.” She grinned. “Which is where you come in I expect.”
“It does pass the time,” he said with a broad smile.
“But you’re on your way to Scotland.”
“Yes, and none too soon.”
“I noticed your boredom.”
“Too much of a good thing,” he drolly replied. “I’m looking forward to little conversation and fewer people at my home in the Highlands.”
“Then I wish you safe journey.”
They’d reached the front door, where two flunkeys were waiting.
Jamie nodded to them.
The door was opened, and with a graceful bow he sent Sofia on her way.
CHAPTER 3
WHETHER IT WAS her artist’s eye, Jamie’s dark good looks, or the fact that she’d been celibate for the rare interval of a fortnight, Sofia found herself dwelling on the splendid James Blackwood as she walked home.
He was exceptionally kind and well mannered as well.
Not that either of those qualities necessarily prompted her reverie apropos the darling man. Rather, it was his undiluted sexuality on display in the countess’s home, as if it were unremarkable for him to serve as stud to female passions. Common and habitual in fact. His composure told the tale.
He knew women wanted him.
In this case, two women.
And Sofia didn’t doubt if he hadn’t had a train to catch, he would have satisfied them both.
Now that would have been a fetching painting—the large, powerful, dark-as-sin Jamie Blackwood engaged in carnal congress with a voluptuous blonde and brunette.
A shiver of arousal rippled throug
h her vagina.
She could represent them in mythological guise, him in full rut with two nymphs or goddesses. Perhaps the Judgment of Paris would serve, although she’d have to add another woman. She drew in a sharp breath at the thought of Jamie Blackwood servicing three women, an involuntary flush warming her body. Quickly glancing around, she took note of the pedestrians in her vicinity and heaved a sigh of relief. Thank God, the nearest was several yards away.
Heavens! How long had it been since she’d made love? Too long if she was indulging in such lewd fantasies!
There was no point in any event in fantasizing about Jamie Blackwood; he was leaving London. And unlike the interfering Lily, she most definitely could not expect a visit upon his return. Although, she rather doubted he’d be calling on the lovely Lily either. Too much of a good thing, he’d plainly said.
Unlike most aristocrats with excess leisure, he did not appear to construct his life around sexual amusements. The countess had referred to him as baron. A Scottish title most likely with a name like Blackwood.
Not that it mattered.
She’d never see him again unless he happened to be at another of the countess’s portrait sittings. Which was unlikely.
So there was absolutely no earthly reason for her to detour to Bruton Street Books to query Rosalind about the baron James Blackwood. But she knew the Duchess of Groveland was originally from Yorkshire—which bordered Scotland. Oh hell, he’d said he was from the Highlands not the Lowlands. Perhaps Fitz knew him.
She found not only Rosalind in her office at the store but also Isolde, Oz Lennox’s wife who’d become a good friend the past year. Rosalind’s small son was asleep in a crib, a nursemaid at his side.
“Come in, sit down, Sofie. I’ve been telling Isolde you’ve been spending considerable time with Bella Bonner, making her more beautiful than she already is.”
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