Seduction in Mind

by Susan Johnson

  “Hussy.”

  “But you want me.”

  “No question there.”

  “And while your ego doesn’t require any further encouragement, I freely admit, at the moment, I can’t live without you … it … that—you know, darling, what you have that I want.”

  “Don’t be shy about asking.”

  “In about a half hour, I’ll do more than ask,” she said, undeterred by his teasing. “But right now I want to show you my favorite pieces.”

  They’d reached the first floor by that time, and she proceeded to take him to each of her favorite paintings, where she explained with great enthusiasm why she liked them.

  “Show me yours now,” he proposed when he’d had the tour of favorites. “I thought you weren’t shy.”

  “There’s a difference between shyness and modesty.”

  “I don’t require either. Nor do you strike me as particularly modest”—his brows rose in sardonic appraisal—“if I recall.”

  “I expect only glowing accolades, then.”

  He grinned. “Would I offend a woman of your inestimable charms?” But neither benevolence nor courtesy were required, for her two paintings were magnificent. And he told her so.

  “Do you really like them?”

  He was reminded of a prideful mother with her children. “I do, and the jury did as well, for they’ve hung your work in prominent positions.”

  “That’s what Charlie told me as well.”

  He was surprised at her hesitancy. She hadn’t displayed that characteristic before. “You have to know you’re extremely good. And I was about to say for a woman, but you know what I mean.”

  She nodded, as aware as he of the prejudices toward female accomplishments in anything construed as a male domain. “I haven’t been painting very long and so many of these artists have spent a lifetime in their endeavors.”

  “This is one field where perseverance is no indication of genius. And if you won’t take offense because he’s your friend, Leighton is a case in point. He’s capable but not brilliant. While you are. Also, keep in mind, your landscapes aren’t quite as academic as the jury would like, and they accepted you anyway. That’s quite a coup, darling.”

  “I’m finding you more and more a man of exceptional taste.”

  “I’m serious. You’re very, very good.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I get more than my share of advice from many of the established male painters.”

  “And it annoys you.”

  She nodded. “Sometimes.”

  “I hope you don’t pay any attention to it.”

  “Not usually, but”—she shrugged—“it can be disconcerting.”

  “Ignore them.” He smiled. “And that’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir, and I shall deliver my orders to you in the privacy of my boudoir.”

  “A charming prospect, but on the way we’ll stop at my house and you can look at my collection. I could use your expertise.”

  “My goodness, Ranelagh,” she remarked playfully. “Can’t you do better than that old line?”

  “I’m serious. And I can have my way with you,” he drawled silkily, “without showing you my paintings.”

  She offered him a coy look. “A gentleman would never—”

  “I don’t aspire to that status….”

  “I see,” she said with dramatic primness.

  He laughed out loud, and sweeping her up into his arms, ran down the corridor and raced down the stairs with a reckless disregard for safety. And when they reached the ground floor, he set her on her feet and kissed her. “It wouldn’t do for me to carry you out the door in sight of Charlie et al.”

  “Maybe I don’t care.”

  “Then I’ll be prudent for both of us.” He was well aware of his reputation, and while he might squire Miss Ionides about without ruining her reputation, he didn’t wish to compromise her to the world. “Now lay your hand on my arm like a woman of fashion, and we’ll say good night to Charlie like well-behaved adults.”

  “But I’ll have you later for myself.” She smiled up at him as she placed her hand on his offered arm. “When you’re not so well behaved.”

  “Try to keep me away,” he challenged her.

  “I might just a little,” she teased.

  “And I might spank your sweet little bottom just a little.”

  “Ummm … that sounds divine.”

  “Your house or mine?” His dark gaze was heated.

  “What will your servants say?”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Of course I’m serious. Or do you take all your lovers home?”

  For a brief moment he thought she was joking, and when he realized she wasn’t, it took him a moment more to come to terms with the enormity of his invitation.

  “You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?”

  “No,” he said politely, but his tone indicated otherwise.

  “You’re allowed your reservations, darling. My expectations don’t go beyond the pleasure of your very expert lovemaking. I don’t want anything more.”

  For a minute he took offense, because he didn’t want her to be so cavalier about something that was astonishingly rare for him. But as quickly, he realized she was right, and if he didn’t come to his senses tonight or tomorrow, he would eventually. He wasn’t looking for permanence, only sex.

  And apparently, so was she.

  Chapter 11

  His house on Park Lane was very new. Alex recognized Wyatt’s hand in the design, the architect one of the bright young talents who were able to effectively combine traditional elements and creativity without either suffering from the union.

  “I didn’t know this was your house,” Alex said as the carriage came to rest before the porticoed entrance. “Although I saw the designs when Martin was beginning the preliminary drawings. He comes to my studio occasionally.” And at Sam’s sudden piercing glance, she added, “For my Sunday literary afternoons.”

  “Now, why would he do that?”

  “Please. Martin is happily married. His wife is a good friend of mine.”

  “I didn’t know he was married.”

  “Because you met him in your library with your steward and secretary and they took care of all the details once you gave your approval to his design.”

  “I can see I’m going to have to improve my image with you.”

  She smiled. “Not completely. In many ways, you’re quite exceptional.”

  “Thank God.”

  “God doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Sometimes he seems to make his presence known,” he noted waggishly.

  “You needn’t remind me.”

  “I didn’t know anyone could blush so much.”

  “Hush,” she warned, glancing at the carriage window that framed a footman’s head.

  “They don’t hear anything.”

  She glared at him. “Of course they do.”

  At that, the door opened and Sam helped her out with courtesy and deference and only one surreptitious wink. He spoke of the weather with circumspect blandness as they moved up the paved walk to the entrance, and had not the beautiful dark-haired woman dressed in an exceptionally scanty costume more appropriate to the harem not jumped from the bushes and leaped at Sam, their approach to Ranelagh House would have been uneventful.

  As it was, Alex screamed.

  Sam swore.

  And the young beauty shrieked, “You swine! You despicable cur! You filthy son of a—” Sam’s hand stopped the remainder of her diatribe, and curbing her flailing arms with a wrestling hold, he handed her over to his footmen, who’d come at a run.

  “You can’t get away with this! I’ll hound you! I’ll see that you pay! I’ll see you in court! You can’t desert me….” Her cries trailed off as she was hauled around the corner of the house.

  “Perhaps this isn’t a good time,” Alex said into the sudden silence.

  Sam looked at her blankly fo
r a moment, as though he’d forgotten she was with him and exhaling softly, he said, “No … it’s fine.”

  “I don’t think so. Shouldn’t you speak to the woman?”

  “God no,” he said with feeling.

  “She’s obviously distrait.” Alex’s expression was cool.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Really. I had the impression she knew you.”

  “Jesus, don’t look at me like that. I’m not the devil incarnate.” He softly sighed. “In fact, Farida’s a more likely candidate.”

  “A male viewpoint, no doubt.”

  “Do we have to talk about this?”

  “No, of course not. We can ignore it. I’m sure you ignore former lovers with great regularity.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything,” he said gruffly.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “But you’re going to talk in that disapproving, snippy tone forever, aren’t you, if I can’t explain this away.”

  “Explaining this away, as you so quaintly put it, isn’t my major concern. The woman seemed genuinely distressed. I think you should see to her.”

  “I already have, countless times. Look,” he said, resentful and defensive. “I gave her a house and a very large bank draft and paid her gambling debts. And that’s all I’m going to do.”

  Alex’s gaze widened. “Good Lord, is there a child involved?”

  He gave her a withering look. “What kind of fool do you think I am?”

  Oddly, she was relieved, when it shouldn’t have mattered in the least what his relationship was with the scantily dressed young woman. “I see,” she said, as though the bland phrase would mask the disarray of her thoughts.

  “This was unfortunate.” For a fleeting moment he looked afflicted. “Come inside … please?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I don’t want you to think me callous. But this mess isn’t your mess.” He shrugged. “And escape is high on my list of priorities at the moment.”

  “The woman has money?”

  “Plenty.”

  “And a house?”

  “A rather nice one. And she lives with her brother, if you’re concerned she’s alone and defenseless.” He snorted. “Not likely, that.”

  “So she’s not destitute and at the mercy of the world.”

  “Rather the opposite. The world’s at her mercy.”

  Alex couldn’t help but smile at the irony of the situation. “Apparently, she’s dissatisfied with you.”

  “She’s dissatisfied she’s lost my financing.”

  “My goodness. So they don’t all want your charming body.”

  “Apparently not,” he replied dryly. “Are you finished being amused at my expense?”

  “She must be very good.”

  He shrugged.

  “Perhaps I should ask for lessons?”

  “Stay away from her. And you don’t need lessons. You’re quite accomplished enough, thank you.”

  “You say that as though it were vexing.”

  He scowled at her. “Don’t start. I’m not in the mood.”

  “What are you in the mood for?”

  Her tone was so lush with promise, he questioned his hearing. Either she was more wanton than he thought or more understanding. But unsure on such short acquaintance, he carefully said, “I’m in the mood for escape—with you. I’ve an apartment near the City if you’d like to see it. It’s private.”

  “She doesn’t know of it, you mean.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Dare you trust me not to stalk you there later?”

  “You’re much too busy beating off your suitors. I doubt you’d have time to pine over me.”

  “We could go back to my studio.”

  “Farida’s unpredictable. It’s better if she doesn’t know where you live.”

  “Is she dangerous?”

  He hesitated. “She could be.”

  “You’ve had problems?”

  “Could we talk about something else? She’s been one of the major mistakes in my life.”

  “Sam!” she protested. “You can’t imply some sort of nefarious activity is involved and then expect me to suppress my curiosity.”

  “I’ll tell you at the apartment.”

  “Do you have food there? I’m hungry.”

  “I have a chef there.”

  “Then, how can I refuse?”

  “How indeed?” He felt immeasurably cheered, Farida’s rampage banished from his mind. “I have a small collection of watercolors there as well.”

  “Good God, Ranelagh. I yield to your numerous allures.”

  He held out his hand. “And I thank you for your understanding.”

  His apartment was just off the Strand in a building that had once housed an Elizabethan grandee. He owned the entire complex, but his quarters were on the main floor, six large rooms he kept for his private retreat. Had she known he’d never even brought a friend there, not to mention a lover, she would have been honored. There was an array of servants at his beck and call as well as the chef, who was summoned to the drawing room to discuss dinner with them.

  Candles had been lit; Sam hadn’t had gaslight brought into his apartment by design, and the early twilight lent an air of calm and peace to the large, paneled room.

  Claude was beside himself with joy that he could demonstrate his considerable skills to more than his employer on the rare occasions Sam was in residence, and his Gallic sensibilities were entranced at the prospect of serving so lovely a lady. When Alex spoke to him in flawless French, his eyes literally filled with tears. There was nothing too good for the beautiful mademoiselle after that. When Claude finally left after bowing himself out of the room, Sam offered Alex a soft round of applause.

  “You’ve charmed him completely.”

  “He’s very sweet. And apparently you never give him the opportunity to fully express himself. He doesn’t like to cook your steaks.”

  “He’s paid handsomely to cook my steaks.”

  “Which is why he stays.”

  “In addition to the fact that he has an English wife.”

  “Nevertheless, he’s pleased to be allowed some creativity tonight.”

  While the dinner menu had been discussed, Sam had drunk two cognacs and quietly observed the remarkable Miss Ionides with delight. Her charms were diverse, catholic, and undeniably natural. She was capable of most anything, it seemed, and he felt fortunate to have her company this evening. And not necessarily in the usual sexual context, he reflected, recognizing the rarity of his feelings. He was actually looking forward to dining and conversing with her, not to mention enjoying her beauty across his candlelit table.

  If he weren’t such a pragmatist, he might consider his benign sensibilities as impressionably romantic.

  Chapter 12

  I was dismissed like some lowly lackey and run off his property,” Farida spat out. “Damn his arrogant hide!”

  “Come to bed, Fari. Ranelagh’s made us rich enough. Don’t be greedy.”

  “I’m not greedy, Mahmud, when the man’s worth ten million. He can afford to give us more and not even miss it.”

  Her brother curled his fine mouth in a grimace and stretched his lithe brown body. “We should sell this grand house and go back to Egypt. It’s always damp here in England and the sun never shines.”

  Farida stood at the end of the bed and glared at her brother. “We’ll go back once I have the fortune I want. And we’ll live in Cairo near the Azbakiyah Gardens, where the British nabobs live—”

  “Not unless you’re serving their wallah wives,” he pointed out, less prone to daydreams than his sister. “Only the Europeans live there.”

  “Then we’ll have our mansion somewhere else.”

  “We can do that now. We don’t need more of Ranelagh’s money.”

  “You’ve always thought too small, Mahmud.”

  His gaze turned sullen. “While you’ve lain with anyone who has ten piastre
s to offer you.”

  “And look what we have, thanks to me. Darling, consider”—her tone turned coaxing—“if I can make Ranelagh pay, you’ll have all the desert ponies you wish.”

  “I want only the ones Hasim stole from us.”

  “And you’ll have them. I promise.”

  “When?” Moody and sullen, he gazed at her, his handsome face a male duplicate of hers, brother and sister a stunning matched pair who had advantageously used their beauty for profit.

  “Soon. The barrister said we can file a breach of promise suit, and there’s always Ranelagh’s Egyptian collection. Think what we could get for it on the art market.” She moved around the end of the bed and sat down beside him. “I missed you today,” she whispered, leaning over to kiss his sulky mouth.

  “I waited for you all afternoon.” His fingers tangled in her hair and he pulled her closer.

  “I’m here now …,” she murmured, stroking his rising erection.

  Chapter 13

  Have you ever thought about having children?” Alex asked.

  Sam and Alex were looking at a series of watercolors painted by Ingres during his Italian sojourn. They had paused in front of one of small children at play in the shade of an olive tree, the dappled sun illuminating their plump, rosy faces. After a superb dinner and several glasses of wine, Alex found their cherubic looks even more endearing.

  Under normal circumstances the viscount would have been alarmed at such a question, but he felt an odd tenderness toward the speaker and he only said, “No, have you?”

  “I would have liked children,” Alex replied, “but …” Reluctant to discuss the idiosyncracies of her marriages, her voice trailed off.

  “It didn’t work out.”

  “No.”

  “Penelope said she was too young to have children.” Even as he spoke, he questioned his sanity. He’d never discussed his wife with anyone.

  Alex smiled faintly. “St. Albans said he was too old.”

  “And Coutts?”

  The color rose on her cheeks. “It was a personal matter.”

  “Ah.” He took her hand. “You haven’t seen my Turner watercolors yet,” he said, mannerly and urbane. From the girls at Hattie’s he’d heard Coutts was impotent. “They’re so fragile, I have them stored in drawers.” He drew her toward a large cabinet in the center of his study.