Seduction in Mind

by Susan Johnson

  “No!” she exclaimed, the sound of her voice shocking in the confined space of her carriage, as was the flagrant extent of her desire.

  She really, really needed to talk to Rosalind. Her friend was always the voice of reason … or at least one of caution to her rash impulses.

  Lady Ormand was entertaining at tea and Alex had to sit through a long, tedious hour before the last guest finally departed. “How do you stand it?” Alex exclaimed as the footman closed the door on the Viscountess Compton. “The conversation was solely of frocks and gowns. Do those women have a life beyond visiting their modiste?”

  “Gwendolyn brought Emily and May today since they’re in town, and you know how—”

  “Shallow they are?”

  Her friend smiled. “Indeed. But consider, you learned how to get Brussels lace for half price from Honitons.”

  “If I’d been listening after the first five minutes, I might have.”

  “I commend you for your courtesy, then. I doubt they noticed. So tell me, darling, what brought you here at such a dangerous time of day? I know how you dislike teatime.”

  “I needed your counsel or advice”—Alex paused—“or perhaps only a sympathetic ear.” And she went on to explain the tale of her introduction to Ranelagh.

  “You have to admit, he’s the most heavenly man in London.” Rosalind 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 exhaled softly. “Perhaps if you’re with me day and night,” she muttered.

  Rosalind’s pale brows rose. “He’s said to have that effect on women. In fact, Allison still trembles at the mention of his name, and her stories of his prowess are quite—unbelievable.”

  “And it annoys me immeasurably that I’m feeling as beguiled as all the mindless Allisons he amuses himself with—and don’t look at me like that … you know Allison prides herself on never having read a book.”

  “While in contrast to Ranelagh’s host of houris, 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 fall, say, after a certain duration, or never in a million years?”

  Alex shifted uncomfortably, tapped her fingers on the gilded chair arm, inhaled, exhaled, was silent for several moments more. “I’m not sure about the million years,” she said finally.

  “Ah.” Rosalind scrutinized her friend with a benevolent gaze. “Then some measure of compromise will be required.”

  “How do you possibly compromise with a man like that? Women have been flinging themselves at him his entire life.”

  “But you haven’t.”

  “Not yet.”

  Rosalind leaned back on the settee, her expression amused. “That would be a first, wouldn’t it? But as I see it, you and Ranelagh are very much alike.” At Alex’s instant pique, she added, “Honestly, darling, you have to admit, men have been flinging themselves at you with similar abandon ever since you left the schoolroom. Not that you’ve taken up with many of them, but they’ve certainly tried. So, do you think you simply dislike Ranelagh’s audacity? Or would you prefer he beg?”

  “I would prefer not having met him. I don’t like feeling this way … as though I were simultaneously breathless with longing and in peril.”

  “Then refuse him.”

  “I intend to. I’m probably making too much of a casual meeting anyway. Ranelagh, no doubt, propositions women every day.”

  “No doubt. Are you feeling better now that you’ve reconciled sense and sensibility?”

  Alex laughed quietly. “Marginally, at least. He is spectacularly male, unfortunately.”

  “And you’ve been avoiding men since Leon insisted you marry him not long ago.”

  “Which is the problem, I tell myself. Ranelagh’s handsomeness is only incidental to my frustrated sexual urges.”

  “Certainly frustration could be a consideration,” Rosalind said kindly.

  “At the moment, I should be entirely too busy to be frustrated,” Alex returned. “Both Leighton and Alma-Tadema have appealed to my goodwill, and in a weak moment I agreed to pose for them—when my schedule is already overcommitted.” She glanced at the clock. “Which reminds me, I must be at Alma-Tadema’s by six. Larry’s working on a painting in which evening shadows are required.”

  “A painting that will garner all the usual praise of both his skills and your beauty. At times, I envy you your freedom. Sidney would never let me be so modern, even though everyone is nominally discreet.”

  “You’re not as insistent as I, darling.”

  “Nor independently wealthy.”

  Alex grinned. “I won’t argue the advantages of my fortune. I’m well aware I’m allowed liberties that only wealth bestows. And there are advantages as well to being an artist. One’s eccentricities are looked upon with a certain tolerance.”

  “And it pleases you to pose nude.”

  “On occasion. If I like the artist and the work. I paint nudes as well. What artist wouldn’t?” She rose with a smile. “Thank you for letting me talk. I’m feeling quite in control of my feelings once again. And Larry always has all the latest gossip. My evening should be amusing.”

  Chapter 3

  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, the earl lifted it in salute. “As soon as I finish this bottle.”

  “After you finish that bottle, you’ll be passed out on my couch,” the viscount said, 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,” Ranelagh replied, 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?”

  “Dammit, 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?”
Ranelagh snorted. “You’re drunk.”

  “And you’re putting golf balls at seven o’clock when you’re never even home at seven.”

  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 doesn’t suit me. As for love—I haven’t a clue.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Eddie toasted, snatching up the brandy bottle as Sam moved toward the door.

  But by chance, their route took them past the studio of Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, an artist as celebrated as Leighton, and a small carriage parked at the curb caught Sam’s eye. He recognized it from Leighton’s. Knocking for his driver to stop, he turned to Eddie. “I’ll meet you at Hattie’s in a few minutes.”

  “Why are you getting out here?”

  “I need some air.”

  “Why?”

  Sam was already swinging down from his carriage. “No special reason,” he said, pushing the door shut. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.” Glancing up, he gave instructions to his driver.

  “You’re sure now?” Eddie looked perplexed.

  “You’ll be entertained at Hattie’s with or without me, but I should be there shortly.”

  “You’re acting very strangely tonight.”

  “You’re drunk,” Sam replied pleasantly, and nodded to his driver.

  The carriage pulled away.

  Chapter 4

  But Eddie was right, Sam realized as he stood on the curb before the commanding entrance to Alma-Tadema’s pseudo-Pompeian palace. He was strangely out of sorts tonight, or curiously ruminative, or, more precisely, in rut for the tantalizing little bitch who had turned him down that afternoon. And he wondered for a moment if his vanity was involved, if he wanted her simply because she’d said no.

  But he wasn’t so crass, nor was he vain. Although he had no explanation for his motivation other than lust. Or none he could comfortably accept. So lust it was that made him stop—and propelled him toward the door.

  Alma-Tadema was feted in society; they’d met before, but Sam had never crossed the threshold of his home. Taking note of the dearth of other carriages, he wondered if the artist’s wife was out of town and he might be intruding on a tête-à-tête. His consideration was fleeting, however. He really didn’t care.

  Unconsciously straightening his cravat, he walked to the huge double doors, lifted the polished brass lion’s-head knocker, and let it drop.

  A young servant girl came to the door. No one so pretentious as Leighton’s Kemp was there to greet Alma-Tadema’s guests. Her curtsy was unpolished, her face scrubbed and rosy, and Sam decided that in spite of his wealth, Sir Lawrence was considerably more natural a man than the head of the Royal Academy.

  He asked to see her master, and when the maid inquired whom she should say was calling, Sam said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to surprise him.” Offering her a warm smile, he placed a twenty-pound note on her palm, winked, and added, “Miss Ionides and I are friends.”

  She didn’t hesitate; the sum represented several months’ salary. “Right up the stairs, sir, and turn to your left,” she directed, taking the hat and gloves Sam handed her. “His studio be those double doors at the end of the hall.”

  When Sam reached the doors, one of them was ajar, revealing a portion of the studio and a fascinating view that brought his erection surging to life. A golden twilight bathed the room, gilding the naked flesh of the woman who had consumed his thoughts. Miss Ionides was languorously disposed on a large sable rug that was draped over a running course of marble plinths. The backdrop represented the partial ruins of a Roman temple—Alma-Tadema’s speciality in history painting, as was his virtuoso depiction of female flesh. An alabaster bowl of white lilies at the lady’s feet was no doubt meant to be metaphorical, or perhaps paradoxical, because this was no innocent maiden lying before him.

  Miss Ionides embodied a flamboyant wantonness. Lying partially on her side, her supple body was flexed faintly at the waist so the curve of her hip was thrown into provocative silhouette. Her head and one shoulder rested on a sumptuous pile of plum-colored brocade pillows, the small feather fan she held over her mons the only nod to modesty in the flagrantly sensual pose. The contrast of her warm, glowing flesh against the cool marble backdrop and the luxurious fur was riveting, as was the voluptuous splendor of her body. Her breasts were enormous and plump, dangling like delicious ripe fruit with the slightly forward twist of her torso, her waist was hands-span narrow—which enchanting thought added dimension to Sam’s arousal. As for her slender, shapely legs, he reflected, his gaze traveling leisurely down her form, surely they were made to be wrapped around him.

  He was so hard, he was aching, the eroticism so explicit and palpable, he was hard pressed not to stride up to her and carry her off like some marauding barbarian at the gates of Rome.

  Suddenly aware he might not be the only man on the scene so inclined, Sam shot a glance at the artist, who was applying paint to the canvas with a decided ferocity. Moved to action by the sight, Sam shoved open the door and strode in. “Forgive me for intruding.” His voice was too curt for true apology. “I have a message for Miss Ionides.”

  Masking her shock, Alex didn’t know if she should be gratified or angry at Ranelagh’s intrusion. Her second irrelevant thought was that he hadn’t changed, as though it mattered a whit that he still wore his day clothes when she wore none. She sat up as Sir Lawrence moved to intercept Sam’s progress.

  “We’re busy, sir,” the artist said gruffly, standing solidly in Sam’s way. “You must leave.”

  “This won’t take long,” Sam replied, coming to a stop, glancing at the man’s crotch. Either Alma-Tadema had enormous restraint or was a eunuch, he decided. His affability restored, Sam’s voice took on a new degree of courtesy. “My compliments on your painting of the lady, Sir Lawrence. Could I buy it?”

  The artist hesitated, wondering if he’d imagined the rude glance. Sam’s expression was completely benign. “I’m afraid it’s already sold,” he finally said, giving the viscount the benefit of the doubt.

  “To whom?”

  “Mr. Cassels.”

  “A shame. It’s very beautiful.”

  “Alex is an exceptional lady.”

  “How so?” The words were suddenly abrupt, cool, all traces of amiability stripped away.

  The painter squarely met the displeasure in Sam’s gaze. “I don’t see that it’s your concern.”

  Both men were large, fit, and obviously disinclined to back down, Alex suspected, if their pugnacious poses were any indication. Since she had no wish to become the center of an embarrassing altercation, she said quickly, “Never mind, Larry. I’ll speak with Ranelagh.”

  “You see?” Sam nodded a cool dismissal at his opponent.

  Sir Lawrence cast a searching glance at Alex.

  “I’m fine,” she asserted. “Really.”

  As Sam approached the dais, Alex tried to curb the heat rising to her face. He seemed larger than she’d remembered, and disconcertingly more handsome. Forcibly tamping down the flush of excitement that gripped her senses, she said crisply, “You shouldn’t be here, but since you are and since I prefer you not grapple with Larry, kindly state your business and be on your way.”

  It took him a fraction of a second to answer because the view at close range was glorious.

  She’d considered covering herself with the fur rug when he’d walked in, but it seemed too exagg
erated and dramatic a gesture. She wasn’t some innocent maiden. She’d posed nude before and she was comfortable in her skin. “If you’re done looking …” she said coolly.

  Reminded of his manners, his gaze traveled to her eyes and he smiled. “I saw your carriage outside, and I was hoping you might be free tonight.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not.” Temperate, imperturbable words.

  He gave her high points for poise. She might have been refusing an invitation to tea … and, more to the point, been fully clothed. But his equanimity had been honed in the school of debauch, and it was impossible so tame a circumstance would extinguish it. “Tomorrow, then?” he said with an equivalent dispassion.

  “I’m afraid I’m busy tomorrow as well.”

  “You’re not actually afraid, are you?” Was it possible beneath the cool gaze?

  She shook her head, and a fortune in diamonds swung from her earlobes. “I’m simply not interested.”

  “Could I convince you somehow”—his voice dropped a half octave—“to become interested?”

  In the deepening shadows, the unadorned grace of his face and form almost took her breath away—her artist’s eye in awe of such stark, sensual beauty. She’d been trying, with difficulty, not to take notice of his splendid looks and, more particularly, of his sizable erection lifting the soft wool of his trousers. “I believe we’ve had this conversation before, and my feelings haven’t changed.” She kept her tone neutral with effort. His arousal was fascinatingly large.

  “I could contrive to mend my ways.”

  A rush of heat spiked through her body at his wicked smile. “You don’t mean it, my lord. We both know that.”

  But a faint equivocation in her voice quickened his senses. Did she mean no or not? Or how much did she mean it? His nostrils flared as though he might catch scent of the truth. Then a singularly familiar fragrance drifted into his nostrils, and his understanding was no longer in question. He recognized the redolent perfume of female arousal. Glancing downward, his gaze settled on the juncture of her thighs. Her auburn curls melted into the soft sable fur, and she was getting wet for him.