“Mrs. Coutts?”
“I’m a widow. Both my husbands died.” She always enjoyed saying that—for the reaction it caused, for the pleasure it gave her to watch people’s faces.
“May I ask how they died?” the viscount inquired, speaking to her with a quiet intensity, as though they were alone in the cavernous room.
“Not in their beds, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She knew of Ranelagh, of his reputation, and thought his question either flippant or cheeky.
“I meant … how difficult it must have been, how distressing. I’m a widower.”
“I know.” But she doubted he was distressed. The flighty, promiscuous Lady Ranelagh had died in a riding accident—and very opportunely, it was said; her husband was about to either kill her or divorce her.
“Would you men like to stay for drinks? Alex and I were just about to sit down for a champagne.” Leighton gestured toward an alcove decorated with various colorful divans. “I reward myself at the end of a workday,” he added with a small deprecating smile.
A bottle of champagne was already on ice atop a Moroccan-style table, and if Alexandra might have wished to refuse, Leighton had made it impossible. Ranelagh was more than willing, Eddie had never turned down a drink in his adult life, and George Howard, like so many men of his class, had considerable leisure time.
Ranelagh seated himself beside Alex, a fact she took note of with mild disdain. She disliked men of his stamp, who only amused themselves in ladies’ beds. It seemed a gross self-indulgence when life offered so much outside the conventional world of aristocratic vice.
He said, “Meeting you this afternoon almost makes me believe in fate. I came here to discover the identity of the exquisite model in Leighton’s Academy painting, and here you are.”
“While I don’t believe in fate at all, Lord Ranelagh, for I came here today with privacy in mind, and here you all are.”
He smiled. “And you’d rather us all to Hades.”
“How astute, my lord.”
He’d never been offered his congé by a woman before and rather than take offense, he was intrigued. Willing females he knew by the score. But one such as this … “Maybe if you came to know us better. Or me better,” he added in a low murmur.
Their conversation was apart from the others, their divan offset slightly from the other bright-hued sofas, and the three men opposite them were deep in a heated discussion of the best routes through the Atlas Mountains.
“Let me make this clear, Lord Ranelagh, and I hope tactful as well. I’ve been married twice; I’m not a novice in the ways of the world. I take my independence very seriously and I’m averse, to put it in the most temperate terms, to men like you, my lord, who find amusement their raison d’ětre. So I won’t be getting to know you better. But thank you for the offer.”
Her hair was the most glorious deep auburn, piled atop her head in heavy, silken waves, and he wished nothing more at the moment than to free the ruby pins holding it in place and watch it tumble onto her shoulders. “Perhaps some other time.” He thought he’d never seen such luscious peaches-and-cream skin, nor eyes, like hers.
“There won’t be another time, my lord.”
“If I were a betting man—”
“But you are.” Equal to his reputation as a libertine was his penchant for high-stakes betting. It was the talk of London at the moment, for he’d won fifty thousand on the first race at Ascot yesterday.
He smiled. “It was merely an expression. Do I call you Mrs. Coutts or the Dowager Countess?”
“I prefer my maiden name.”
“Then, Miss Ionides, what I was about to say was that if I were a betting man, I’d lay odds we are about to become good friends.”
“You’re too arrogant, Ranelagh. I’m not eighteen and easily infatuated by a handsome man, even one of your remarkable good looks.”
“While I’m not only fascinated by a woman of your dazzling beauty but intrigued with your unconventional attitude toward female nudity.”
“Because I pose nude, you think me available?”
“So blunt, Miss Ionides.”
“You weren’t interested in taking me to tea, I presume.”
“We’ll do whatever you like,” he replied, the suggestion in his voice so subtle, his virtuosity couldn’t be faulted. And that, of course, was the problem.
“You’ve more than enough ladies in your train, Ranelagh. You won’t miss me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“A shame.”
“Speak for yourself. I have a full and gratifying life. If you’ll excuse me, Frederick,” she said, addressing her host as she rose to her feet. “I have an appointment elsewhere.”
The viscount had risen to his feet. “May I offer you a ride to your appointment?”
She slowly surveyed him from head to toe, her gaze coming to rest after due deliberation on his amused countenance. “No, you may not.”
“I’m crushed,” he said, grinning.
“But not for long, I’m sure,” she crisply replied, and waving at Leighton and the other men, she walked away.
Everyone followed her progress across the large room and only when she’d disappeared through the high Moorish arch did conversation resume.
“She’s astonishingly beautiful,” George Howard said. “I can see why you have her pose for you.”
“She deigns to pose for me,” Leighton corrected. “I’m only grateful.”
“I’m surprised a woman of her magnificence hasn’t married again.”
“She prefers her freedom,” Leighton offered. “Or so she says.”
“From that tone of voice, I’m surmising you’ve propositioned her,” Eddie observed. “And been refused.”
Leighton dipped his handsome leonine head in acknowledgment. “At least I’m in good company, rumor has it. She’s turned down most everyone.”
“Most?” Ranelagh regarded the artist from beneath his long lashes, his lazy sprawl the picture of indolence.
“She has an occasional affair, I’m told.”
“By whom?” Ranelagh’s voice was very soft. “With whom?”
“My butler seems to know. I believe Kemp’s acquainted with Alex’s lady’s maid.”
“With whom is she currently entertaining herself then, pray tell?” The viscount moved from his lounging pose, his gaze suddenly intent.
“No one I know. A young art student for a time.” He shrugged. “A banker she knew through her husband. A priest, someone said.” He shook his head. “Only gossip, you understand. Alex keeps her private life private.”
“And yet she’s willing to pose nude—a blatantly public act.”
“She’s an artist in her own right. She accepts the nude form as separate from societal attitudes.”
“Toward women,” the viscount proposed.
Leighton shrugged again. “I wouldn’t venture a guess on Alex’s cultural politics.”
“You’re wasting your time, Sammy, my boy,” Eddie told Ranelagh, waving his champagne glass toward the door through which Alex had exited. “She’s not going to give you a tumble.”
The viscount’s dark brows rose faintly. “We’ll see.”
“That tone of voice always makes me nervous. The last time you said We’ll see, I ended up in a Turkish jail, from which we were freed only because the ambassador was a personal friend of the sultan’s minister. And why you thought you could get through the phalanx of guards surrounding that harem, I’ll never know.”
“We almost made it.”
“Nearly cost us our lives.”
“You worry too much.”
“While you don’t worry at all.”
“Of course I do. I was worried Lady Duffin’s husband was going to break down the door before we were finished last week.”
“So that’s why Charles won’t speak to you anymore.”
The viscount shrugged. “He never did anyway.”
Alexandra didn’t ha
ve another appointment, but feeling the need to talk to someone, she had her driver take her to Lady Ormand’s. This time of day, she’d have to sit through the tedium of tea, but not for long, since Rosalind’s guests would have to leave soon to dress for dinner.
She felt strangely agitated and annoyed that she was agitated and further annoyed that the reason for her troublesome feelings was Viscount Ranelagh.
He was just another man, she firmly told herself, intent on repressing her astonishing reaction to him. She was no longer a missah young girl whose head could be turned by seductive dark eyes and a handsome face. Nor was she some tart who could be bluntly propositioned, as though he had but to nod his perfect head and she would fall into bed with him.
But something remarkable had happened when they met, and try as she might to deny his startling sexual magnetism, she was impossibly drawn to him.
Unfortunately, that seductive power was his hallmark; he was known for the carnal eagerness he inspired in females. And she refused to succumb.
Having spent most of her adult life struggling against conformity, trying to find a role outside the societal norms for women of her class, needing the independence denied so many females, surely she was strong enough to resist a libertine, no matter how sinfully handsome or celebrated his sexual expertise. Regardless, she’d not slept with anyone since her disastrous affair with Leon.
Reason, perhaps, for her injudicious impulses now.
But after Leon, she’d vowed to be more prudent in her choices.
And Ranelagh would be not only imprudent but—if his conduct at Leighton’s was any evidence—impudent as well.
Inexhaustible in bed, however, if rumor was true, a devilish voice in her head reminded her.
She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, as though she might restrain her carnal urges with so slight a gesture. Impossible of course, so she considered spending a few hours with young Harry, who was always so grateful for her company. But gratitude didn’t have much appeal when images of Ranelagh’s heated gaze filled her brain. Nor did young Harry’s sweetness prevail over the shamelessly bold look in Ranelagh’s eyes.
“No!” she exclaimed, the sound of her voice shocking in the confined space, as was the flagrant extent of her desire.
She desperately needed to speak with Rosalind.
Her friend was always the voice of reason … or at least one of caution to her rash impulses.
But when the last teatime guest had finally departed and the tale of her introduction to Ranelagh was complete, Rosalind said, “You have to admit, he’s the most heavenly man in London.” She shrugged her dainty shoulders. “Or England or the world, for that matter.”
Alex offered her friend a sardonic glance. “Thank you for the discouragement.”
“Forgive me, dear, but he is lovely.”
“And he knows it and I don’t wish to become an afternoon of amusement for him.”
“Would you like it better if it were more than an afternoon?”
“No. I would prefer not thinking of him at all. He’s arrogant and brazenly self-assured and no doubt has never been turned down by a woman in his life.”
“So you’re the first.”
“I meant it facetiously.”
“And you’ve come here to have me bolster your good judgment and caution you to reason.”
“Exactly.”
“And will that wise counsel suffice?”
Alex softly exhaled. “Maybe if you’re with me day and night.”
Rosalind’s pale brows rose. “He’s said to have that effect on women.”
“And it annoys me immeasurably that I’m as beguiled as all the mindless women he amuses himself with.”
“You wish your intellect to be in control of your desires.”
“I insist on it.”
“Is it working?”
Alex shoved her teaspoon around on the embroidered linen cloth for a lengthy time before she looked up. “No.”
“So the question becomes—what are you going to do?”
“I absolutely refuse to fall into his arms.” She glared at her friend. “Do you understand? I won’t.”
“Fine. Are there matters of degree then?”
“About what?”
“About falling into his arms. Would you, say, after a certain duration, or never in a million years?”
Alex shifted uncomfortably in her chair, tapped her fingers on the gilded chair arm, inhaled, exhaled, and was silent for several moments more. “I’m not sure about the million years,” she finally said.
“You’re boring the hell out of me,” Eddie grumbled, reaching for the brandy bottle at his elbow.
Sam looked up from his putt. “Go to the Marlborough Club yourself.”
“I might.” Refilling his glass, Eddie lifted it in salute. “As soon as I finish this bottle.”
“After you finish that bottle, you’ll be passed out on my couch,” Sam murmured, watching the ball roll into the cup on the putting green he’d had installed in his conservatory.
“You don’t miss a night out as a rule,” Eddie remonstrated. “Did the merry widow’s refusal incapacitate you?”
“Au contraire,” Sam murmured, positioning another ball with his golf club. “I’m feeling first-rate. And I expect she’s in high mettle as well.”
“She turned you down, Sam.”
“But she didn’t want to.” He softly swung his club, striking the ball with exquisite restraint.
“And you can tell.”
The viscount half smiled. “I could feel it.”
“So sure …”
“Yes.”
“And you’re saving yourself for her now?”
“Jesus, Eddie, if you want to go, go. I don’t feel like fucking anyone right now and I drank enough last night to last me a week.”
“Since when haven’t you felt like fucking someone?” his friend asked, his gaze measured.
“What the hell are you insinuating?”
“That you fancy the voluptuous Miss Ionides with more than your usual casual disregard.”
“After meeting her for ten minutes?” Sam snorted. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re putting golf balls at eight o’clock when you’re never even home at eight.”
Sam tossed his club aside. “Let’s go.”
“Are you going out like that?”
The viscount offered his friend a narrowed glance. “None of the girls at Hattie’s will care.”
“True,” Eddie muttered, heaving himself up from the leather-covered couch. “But don’t do that to me again. It scares the hell out of me.”
Sam was shrugging into his jacket. “Do what?”
“Change the pattern of our dissolute lives. If you can be touched by Cupid’s arrow, then no man’s safe. And that’s bloody frightening.”
“Rest assured that after Penelope, I’m forever immune to Cupid’s arrow,” Sam drawled. “Marriage don’t suit me. As for love, I haven’t a clue.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Eddie murmured, snatching up the brandy bottle as Sam moved toward the door.
But much later, as the first light of day fringed the horizon, Lord Ranelagh walked away from Hattie Martin’s luxurious brothel pervaded by a deep sense of dissatisfaction. What had previously passed for pleasure seemed wearisome now; a jaded sense of sameness enervated his soul, and sullen and moody, he found no pleasure even in the glorious sunrise.
Walking home through the quiet city streets, he was plagued by thoughts of the bewitching Miss Ionides, wondering where she’d slept or, like him, not slept. The rankling thought further lowered his spirits. By the time he reached his town house, he’d run through a mental list of any number of men who might be her lovers, the image of her voluptuous body in the arms of another man inexplicably disagreeable.
It shouldn’t be. He should be immune to the nature of her liaisons. He had met the damned woman only a day ago and there was no earthly reason why he should care who the hell she slept with
.
He snapped at the hall porter when he entered his house, immediately apologized, and after making some banal excuse, pressed ten guineas into the servant’s hand. When he walked into his bedroom a few moments later, he waved a restraining hand at his valet, who came awake with a start and jumped to his feet. “Go back to sleep, Rory. I can undress myself. In fact, take the day off. I won’t be needing you.”
His young manservant immediately evinced concern. The viscount was accustomed to being waited on, his family’s fortune having insulated him from the mundane details of living.
Recognizing his valet’s hesitation, Sam said, “I’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Why not take Molly for a walk in the park,” the viscount suggested, knowing Rory’s affection for the downstairs maid. “She may have the day off as well.”
“Thank you, sir!”
“Go, now.” Sam waved him off. “All I want to do is sleep.”
In a more perfect world, he might have slept, considering he’d been up for twenty-four hours; but Miss Ionides was putting an end to the perfection of his world and to his peace of mind. He tossed and turned for more than an hour before throwing aside the blanket and stalking over to a small table holding two decanters of liquor. Pouring himself a considerable amount of cognac, he dropped into an upholstered chair, and sliding into a sprawl, contemplated the injustice of Miss Ionides’s being so damned desirable.
Half a bottle of cognac later, he decided he’d simply have to have her and put an end to his lust and her damnable allure. He further decided his powerful craving was just the result of his not having what he wanted—her. And once he’d made love to the delectable Miss Ionides, that craving would be assuaged. Familiarity breeding contempt, as they say, had been the common pattern of his sexual amusements. In his experience, one woman was very much like another once the game was over.
But this particular game of seduction was just beginning, and glancing out the window, he took note of the position of the sun in the sky. The races would be starting soon at Ascot, the entire week scheduled with prestigious races, the Season bringing all of society to the track.
Including Miss Ionides, if he didn’t miss his guess.
Susan Johnson Page 49
