Seduction in Mind

by Susan Johnson

  “What if I really did mean it?” he said, heated and low, his gaze returning to hers. “What then?”

  The lust in his eyes excited her, stirred and thrilled her, when she should despise a man who made love only for sport.

  But he moved a step closer, leaned in, and whispered in a velvety tone, “We’ll do whatever you want to do … you set the limits—you give the orders.”

  For a reckless moment, she wanted to clutch the heavy black silk of his hair, pull him close, and kiss him hard—in prelude to what he so temptingly offered. Clenching her fists against the rash impulse, she said instead, “I don’t want to give orders.”

  “Better yet.”

  She shivered faintly at the implication.

  “If I were to touch you … there”—he gestured languidly at her mons, and she found herself gauging the length of his long, large fingers—“I guarantee you’ll change your mind.”

  “If you dare,” she said tersely, feeling as though she were suffocating, “you’ll never touch me again.”

  Her phrasing gave him pause, her “again” tantalizing—a myriad of possibilities instantly reverberating through his brain. “Tell me where or when or how”—his smile was carnal and lush—“or we could leave now and you could … show me.”

  A clamorous ringing crash shattered the heated ferment.

  Sam didn’t turn his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he breathed.

  But Alex looked, and like a sluice of icy water rushing in, the world intruded. Larry was reaching down to pick up the fallen container and scattered brushes from the puddle of linseed oil spreading over the floor.

  Leaping to her feet, Alex shoved past Sam before she lost her resolve and jumped from the dais.

  He could have stopped her if he’d wished, but no one could accuse him of being gauche. And he understood with a libertine’s expertise, it was only a matter of time before the skittish Miss Ionides yielded. Watching her stride away, Sam admired her beauty and nerve, not to mention the silken sway of her hips.

  She was going to be one hot little piece, he thought pleasantly.

  When she disappeared from sight, the studio was eerily silent.

  Moving toward Alma-Tadema, Sam issued a well-mannered and self-possessed smile, as though he’d not just tried to seduce the artist’s model. “Do you think Cassels might be talked into selling your painting to me?” he inquired, the cultivated world of the aristocracy in every smooth syllable.

  Alma-Tadema shrugged. “Who knows?” Alex had escaped; he could be urbane as well.

  Sam’s mouth curved into a rueful smile. “You dropped those brushes on purpose, didn’t you?”

  The painter’s expression was bland. “You’ll have to do your courting on your own time, my lord.”

  “You’re her champion, I presume.” Sam’s gaze narrowed as he approached the man. “Or are you more?”

  “That would be for Alex to say.”

  “Your wife doesn’t mind?”

  “I’d say ask her, but you probably would. And I’m not obliged to suffer rudeness in my own home.”

  Sam sighed. “My apologies. Miss Ionides has put me out of countenance.”

  “You and a good many other men. You’re not alone, if that’s any consolation.”

  “It’s not,” Sam replied curtly.

  Sir Lawrence smiled for the first time. “My condolences.”

  “Amusing, I’m sure.” Sam bowed stiffly. “I’ll bid you good night. My compliments on your talent. The painting of Miss Ionides is superb.”

  And he intended to own it just as soon as he found Cassels.

  But much later, as the first light of day fringed the horizon, Lord Ranelagh walked away from Hattie Martin’s luxurious brothel pervaded with 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, even the glorious sunrise failed to please him.

  Walking home through the quiet streets, he was plagued with thoughts of the bewitching Miss Ionides, wondering where she’d slept or, like he, not slept—which rankling thought further lowered his spirits. And by the time he’d 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 delectable body in the arms of another man inexplicably disagreeable.

  It shouldn’t be. He should be immune to the nature of her liaisons. He hadn’t even met the damned woman a day ago and there was no earthly reason he should care who the hell she slept with.

  He snapped at the hall porter when he entered his house, immediately apologized at the man’s stricken expression, 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 of 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 period 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 being so damned desirable.

  Half a bottle of cognac later, he’d decided he’d simply have to fuck 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 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.

  Rising from his chair, he walked to the bellpull and rang for a servant. He needed a bath.

  His butler walked into his bedroom a second later, not in response to his summons—with a message instead.

  “There’s someone to see you, sir.”

  Owens’s tone was such that Sam’s gaze turned wary. “Who?”

  “Your mother, my lord.”

  “At this damned hour?” Already bad-tempered and moody after his dissatisfying night, the last person Sam cared to see was his mother. “Does she know I’m home?”

  “She saw your hat and gloves on the console table.”

  The viscount swore. “I don’t suppose you could tell her I was sleeping?”

  “She ordered me to wake you, sir.”

  The viscount swore again. “Don’t send her up.” His voice was brusque. “I’ll come down.”

  “She’s in the breakfast room, sir, having her breakfast.”

  “While she’s ruined mine,” Sam said.

  The butler glanced at the glass of cognac the viscount held in his hand, his expression bland. “A shame, sir, but she wouldn’t be deterred.”

  “Is she ever?”

  It wasn’t a question that required an answer,
or certainly not one by a servant.

  “Tell her I’ll be down in ten minutes,” Sam said curtly.

  When the viscount entered the breakfast room a half hour later, bathed, dressed, and more tranquil for the three additional drinks he had imbibed, he was able to say “Good morning, Mother” with a modicum of courtesy.

  “Your chef burned my toast,” his mother noted irritably.

  “I’ll have him fired on the spot.”

  “I see your caustic sense of humor is undiminished.”

  “You’re up early,” he replied, not about to trade insults. He and his parents agreed on very little; they saw each other less. And if his mother was calling on him at what was for her the crack of dawn, she brought trouble for certain. He remained standing.

  “I came to remind you of our dinner party tonight.”

  “I’m sorry. Did my secretary send an acceptance?”

  “Of course he didn’t, and that’s why I’m here. Clarissa Thornton will be there with her parents, and I wish you to attend. The earl and countess always ask for you, and their land borders our Yorkshire estates.”

  “And their daughter is angling for a husband.”

  “You needn’t be so crass, Samuel. Is it a crime for a beautiful young woman to wish to marry well?”

  “Just so long as it’s not to me.”

  “The Thornton family goes back well before the Norman invasion. Their bloodlines are as pure as ours. No taint of industry stains their heritage, nor does the stench of new money—”

  “You may stop, Mother. I’ve heard the lecture a thousand times more than I wish, and the taint of industry or new money doesn’t concern me. Nor does Clarissa Thornton.” His smile was tight in spite of the fact that he was well sedated with cognac. “Is that clear enough?”

  The Countess of Milburn sat up straighter, her blue gaze cool. “I told your father you would be obstinate as usual.”

  “You should have listened to him and saved yourself a trip to Park Lane so early in the morning.”

  “Your marriage to Penelope has left you bitter.”

  “Your persistent efforts to marry me off then and now have left me bitter, Mother. Kindly stop interfering in my life. Penelope was a disastrous mistake I have no intention of repeating.”

  “You shouldn’t have been so cruel to her, and she would have been perfectly content.”

  A tick appeared high on his cheekbone and he restrained his temper with difficulty. “In the interests of peace in the family—however strained—let’s not discuss Penelope. You know nothing about the matter.”

  “I know perfectly well what her mother told me. You treated her abominably.”

  “No, I did not,” he said, his voice taut.

  “She loved you to distraction.”

  “No, she did not.” The tick was more pronounced.

  “You don’t know how to treat a woman with respect.”

  He was doing his damnedest just then. “I have an appointment, Mother. If you’ll excuse me. Owens will bring you fresh toast if you wish.”

  “I don’t wish fresh toast. I wish you to come to dinner tonight.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. It’s impossible.”

  “Have you no thought of an heir,” she inquired heatedly, her eyes snapping with irritation, her slender shoulders quivering ever so slightly with her indignation.

  “Marcus has sons.”

  “The Lennoxes have always inherited by direct bloodlines.”

  “Then maybe it’s time for a change. Good day, Mother.” And he walked from the room before he said something inexcusable.

  His temper must have been evident on his face, for the servants moved out of his way as he stalked down the corridor. Fucking Clarissa Thornton! What the hell was his mother thinking? As if he were interested in another empty-headed schoolgirl intent on marrying a wealthy man.

  And as though his heated emotions required surcease, the very unschoolgirllike sensuality of Miss Ionides appeared in his thoughts. He smiled. What a perfect antidote to his mother’s annoying visit. He could be at the racetrack within the hour.

  Chapter 5

  The day was balmy with a light breeze, the sunshine brilliant, the field of thoroughbreds choice. It was the kind of afternoon to put anyone in good humor. And once he found Miss Ionides, Sam thought as he walked into the royal enclosure, he just might attain that state.

  He’d missed the first race, having been waylaid by his steward, who’d required numerous signatures on numerous documents, most of which could have safely waited until tomorrow with anyone but Patrick. But Patrick McGuff ran Sam’s estates with a fine-tuned precision and for his expertise, however compulsive, Sam willingly suffered an occasional inconvenience.

  His headache was almost gone—several cups of very black coffee along with a quick breakfast had restored his energy after his sleepless night—and now all he had to do was find Miss Ionides and convince her to leave with him. Nothing too daunting, he facetiously thought, remembering her pointed rejections yesterday. But he remembered, as well, the look behind the look in her eyes, the one that responded to him with an instant susceptibility. And she wasn’t a novice after two husbands and considerable lovers. She knew what she was feeling.

  When he found her, however, she was surrounded by a flock of admirers, and she refused to acknowledge his presence. He stood apart for a time, enjoying the view—she looked especially fine in cream georgette and a small flowered hat—enjoying her obvious discomfort as well. She’d taken note of him despite her studied indifference. But when he finally approached her sometime later, his voice was deliberately bland. “Could you spare a few moments, Miss Ionides? I could use some help deciding which horse to bet on in the next race.”

  The Spanish ambassador’s son, who had been the most solicitous of her admirers, looked at Sam and snorted. “Might you like some advice on the ladies as well, Ranelagh?” Sam’s record of wins at the track was unparalleled.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Jorges, but if I were, I wouldn’t be asking for advice on either horses or ladies.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Lord Ranelagh,” Alex interjected, fixing her gaze on Sam’s forehead because her pulse rate had quickened the instant he’d walked into the enclosure and only sheer will had maintained her composure under his surveillance. “I rarely bet on the horses.”

  “Perhaps we could learn together, then”—he smiled—“about the merits of thoroughbreds.”

  How beautifully he smiled, how at ease he was in pursuit. “Thank you, but I’m really not interested.” Her voice was brusque because she’d barely slept last night for thoughts of him, and his assurance was galling. Furthermore, he looked as though he’d not slept either, his eyes shadowed with fatigue, and she wasn’t naive enough to think he’d lost sleep over her.

  “She’s not interested, Sam,” the Prince of Wales noted jovially, turning from his conversation with Lord Rothschild. “Now, there’s a first, eh, my boy? And I don’t blame you, Alex,” he added, grinning. “Sam’s not to be trusted with a pretty lady.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Your Majesty. As is everyone in London.”

  Wales laughed as Sam’s gaze narrowed. “There, you see, your reputation has preceded you.”

  “You might mention to Miss Ionides that I contribute generously to charity,” Sam drawled. “Several of yours, as I recall,” he remarked pointedly, one brow raised faintly at the heir to the throne.

  “Oh, ho! So it’s blackmail and chastisement for my directness,” the prince noted cheerfully. “Would you be placated, Alex, by a charitable nature?”

  “Charitable in a great many ways, Miss Ionides,” Sam interposed smoothly.

  She knew what he meant; everyone within hearing knew what he meant, and she kept her voice temperate with effort. “I’m sure you are, Lord Ranelagh, and I commend you on your benevolence, but as I mentioned yesterday, I have a very busy life.”

  “There. You see, Sam? Just as I said. Now, come,” the pr
ince declared, taking Sam by the arm, “come entertain Lillie with your racing expertise. She wishes to parlay her money into a windfall, and if anyone can help her, you can. Excuse us.” Familiar with having his wishes obeyed, Wales took Sam with him, and the viscount spent the next hour helping Lillie Langtry, the prince’s paramour, bet on sure winners.

  But even the Prince of Wales couldn’t long prevail on Sam’s good nature, and after the fourth race, which brought Lillie another generous return on her investment, Sam made his bow.

  “All good wishes on your pursuit.” Lillie gazed in Alex’s direction. “But as a woman of great wealth, Miss Ionides is in a position to determine her own course in life.”

  “The advantage of having money,” Sam replied lazily, taking note of Alex’s mildly distracted air. “Although it allows a certain degree of impulsiveness as well.”

  “While there are those of us with neither luxury,” Lillie murmured.

  He couldn’t with courtesy agree. “If Miss Ionides refuses me again,” he said instead, “I’ll be back to add to your winnings.”

  “Sam, dear, you were more than generous with your discerning eye for winning horseflesh. And I have plenty of time to feather my nest.”

  “Make sure Wales pays for your company, darling. He can afford it.”

  Lillie glanced at the prince, who was in conversation with several of his cronies. “I’m doing well,” she said quietly.

  “Better, at any rate.” The viscount knew of the Jersey Lily’s impoverished background as the daughter of a clergyman.

  “Yes, much. And thank you for all the wins today.”

  “My pleasure.” Sam grinned. “And now we’ll see if Jorges has sufficiently bored Miss Ionides.”

  “Along with all the others,” Lillie added with a nod of her head at the throng of men surrounding Alex.

  “She looks weary of smiling, don’t you think?”

  “She does, rather. And you feel you can alter that stoic smile?” Her query was playful.

  “Of course I can. If only the lady would overlook the burden of my reputation.”