Gorgeous As Sin
Susan Johnson
Fitz Monckton, Duke of Groveland, has never encountered a woman he can't seduce – until he clashes with the beautiful Rosalind St. Vincent, whose bookshop sits in the way of Fitz's lucrative development deal. If money won't entice Rosalind to sell her shop, Fitz must tempt her in other ways – hopefully mutually pleasurable, and profitable to them both.
Susan Johnson
Gorgeous As Sin
The first book in the Gorgeous as Sin series, 2009
Chapter 1
London, August 1891
PROSPER HUTCHINSON, THE barrister of choice for London’s wealthy, rose from his chair to greet the tall, handsome aristocrat walking through his door. “At last, Your Grace.” He’d sent the duke a message five days ago.
“I was in the country.” The Duke of Groveland stripped off his tan riding gloves as he crossed the sumptuous Axminster carpet custom-made for the imposing corner office overlooking Piccadilly Square.
“Yes, I know.” The duke was entertaining his newest paramour while her husband was shooting in Scotland. Everyone knew.
An easy smile graced the duke’s fine features. “Don’t glower so, Hutchinson. I eventually arrived, and admit it-your messages always smack of crisis.”
“This crisis could cost you a fortune.”
“How much of a fortune?” George Montagu Fitz-Robbins Monckton calmly asked, tossing his gloves on Hutchinson’s large, ornate desk and taking a seat across from his barrister.
“Ninety thousand.” The portly barrister dropped into his chair with a grimace.
The duke arrested his slide into a lounging pose, his dark brows rising faintly. “That much.”
“Perhaps more should your plans for Monckton Row come to naught because Mrs. St. Vincent won’t sell.”
“Mrs. St. Vincent? A theatrical name or”-a smile quirked his lips-“a female of a certain profession?” Apparently over his initial surprise at the sum quoted by his barrister, the duke unbuttoned his fawn-colored silk tweed jacket, stretched out his jodhpur-clad legs, and rested his head against the tufted green leather some decorator had chosen for Hutchinson’s office chairs.
“She is rather a lady of a certain obstinacy, Your Grace,” Prosper Hutchinson grumbled, rapping his fingertips on his desktop to emphasize his displeasure. “All the other properties east of Berkeley Square have been purchased, but with Mrs. St. Vincent standing in your way, your ninety thousand is at risk. The very mulish lady has asserted that she has no intention of ever selling. She told me your grace may go to Hades for all she cares.”
“She did, did she? You spoke to her?” As a rule, Hutchinson didn’t take part in purchase negotiations. He employed twenty barristers to take care of such matters.
“I had to.” Hutchinson leaned forward over his paunch to underscore his vexation. “The troublesome female had flatly refused five of our offers. And I’d sent my very best men.” The barrister picked up a gold filigreed letter opener, held it between his fingertips, and gazed at it for a moment, pursed lipped. Then he looked up, met the duke’s languid gaze, and said ruefully, “You might as well hear it from me first, Your Grace. Apparently Mrs. St. Vincent disapproves of-I believe her words were ‘Odious, prodigal scoundrels who think their titles and wealth give them carte blanche in the world.’ ”
The duke looked amused. “It seems the lady is of a socialist bent.”
“I rather think her remark was of a more personal nature.” Groveland’s reputation for prodigality and dissipation was well known.
“She isn’t the first woman to disapprove of me,” the duke casually returned, his indifference to censure a marked trait. “But a female who’s not susceptible to your bank drafts”-a note of drollery colored his words-“now that’s a first, isn’t it, Hutchinson?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Groveland’s female entanglements occasionally required the barrister’s intercession to amiably end an affair. And to date, bank drafts had always proved effective.
“So what now?” A soft, unruffled query. In the duke’s experience, the world generally bent to his will. It wasn’t hubris, just a recognition of reality. He was illustriously titled, the bearer of an enormous fortune, and for what it was worth-in matters of seduction more than anything-blessed with the Montagu dark good looks.
“We are at an impasse unless you wish to increase your offer substantially. I didn’t feel I had the authority to do so without speaking to you and explaining the unfortunate situation.”
The twenty-third Duke of Groveland pursed his lips. “Substantially you say.”
“I’m afraid so, Your Grace. The woman is obstinate to a fare-thee-well and in my estimation outrageously so for someone in her circumstances.”
Groveland’s grey gaze turned razor sharp. “What circumstances?”
“Her husband left her all but destitute when he died. From all appearances she is eking out a living. She resides above the bookstore, which is a saving, of course, but really, she should be exceedingly grateful for your generous offer rather than refusing it out of hand.” Leaning back in his chair, Hutchinson softly sighed. “Women, Your Grace. Quite irrational creatures.”
Now the duke knew women better than most. In fact he had outstripped all previous records apropos the number of females who had fallen prey to his charms. And gentlemen’s clubs were partial to keeping such scores. Seduction was a major amusement for Groveland-some said… his avocation. It was only natural he would say, “Why don’t you leave her to me, Hutchinson. I have had some luck with convincing women to, ah… accommodate me.”
Forgetting his consequence for a moment, Hutchinson exhaled loudly and blurted out, “I was hoping you might take a hand. The lady is beyond my capabilities, and I’ll admit, I haven’t felt such frustration in a decade or more. I never lose, sir-you know that. It’s intensely disconcerting to acknowledge defeat.”
“Nonsense, Hutchinson. You have no reason to feel defeated. Haven’t you masterfully acquired every piece of property I’ve ever wanted? Of course you have. This woman may be irrational or addled in some way-particularly,” he added with a faint smile, “if she’s a socialist. Her personal biases are certainly not your fault. Let me talk to her, and then we’ll see where we stand.”
“Since her shop is on the corner, it’s a pivotal piece in the architect’s plan,” the barrister pointed out, his shaggy brows knotting in a scowl.
“Perhaps Mrs. St. Vincent knows as much. She may have spoken to some of the other property owners who sold to us. She may feel she now holds the winning hand.”
Another grim scowl. “If so, I wish you well, Your Grace.”
“Come, enough long faces.” The duke nodded at the liquor trolley behind Hutchinson’s desk; a Scotsman was never far from his drink. “Pour me a whiskey and tell me what you know about the properties you’ve already acquired.”
Since he’d cajoled Clarissa into leaving Green Grove and seen her comfortably settled at Frances Knolly’s country house party, the duke was currently free of encumbrances. And frankly, after a fortnight with Clarissa, no matter how heated and exotic the sex, he’d been ready to transfer her into someone else’s care. His capacity for boredom was slight, a defect no doubt of a life free of restraints. He’d been indulged from the cradle save for by his father, and when the former duke had had the good grace to drink himself to death before George could kill him, the title had devolved to the young heir. Despite his youth, the twenty-third Duke of Groveland had found the larger world equally amenable to his wishes.
Although no one but his mother dared call him George. Since he loved her unconditionally and she him, he even allowed her to call him Georgie on occasion. To the world, however, he was Groveland or Your Grace; to his f
riends he was Fitz or The Monk, while his lovers generally called him darling with great enthusiasm and affection.
Surely he could charm one woman into accepting his offer-particularly a destitute female. Accepting his glass from Hutchinson, he listened while the barrister explained in some detail the entire litany of recent property purchased for what would soon become Monckton Row-God willing and Groveland’s cultivated charm gainfully applied.
When Hutchinson’s recitation came to an end, the duke held out his glass for a refill. “Now, tell me what to expect from this curious woman. If she’s a widow, she must not be in her first blush. And I gather she isn’t a lady of the night or an actress. Would she be predisposed to some small gift-flowers, candy, a bit of jewelry perhaps? You’re certain, too, she knows who I am.”
“I assume so, Your Grace,” Hutchinson replied, pouring a goodly bumper of whiskey into the outstretched glass. “She cited you by name as she consigned you to Hades. As to her age, she’s not young, but she’s not old; she has reddish hair and is above-average height, I believe,” the barrister explained like a man without an ounce of the Lothario in his soul-a man incapable of describing his wife or daughters without a photograph in hand. “In terms of a gift, I confess, sir, you might know about that better than I.” Groveland was not called The Monk without express and explicit irony.
“Is there anything about her deceased husband or her background that might be useful for me to know? The bookshop is a relatively recent addition to the neighborhood if I’m not mistaken.” He often walked by it en route to Bond Street.
“It’s been there almost seven years, Your Grace. Edward St. Vincent was a poet of some small fame thanks to the Queen’s interest in his work, but apparently he was a gamester as well and not a very good one. There were rumors about his death-that he may have taken a hand in ending his life, but it’s impossible to know, of course. Not that losses at cards aren’t often a precursor to self-destruction. We all know such instances.
“As for the widow herself, she is of respectable birth. She enjoys the title, the Honorable Rosalind Pitt-Riverston, but her family is without fortune. Her father, Baron Pitt-Riverston, dabbles in the natural sciences I’ve been told. In some remote area of Yorkshire, I believe.”
“So she is not a working-class female.”
“No. On the contrary. She exudes an air of hauteur.”
Groveland’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t say.” He lifted the glass to his mouth and drank down the whiskey as if it might better clarify his thoughts.
“Indeed, I do,” Hutchinson retorted with a decided sniff. “I was sent on my way with the most high-handed arrogance.”
“Hmm. Audacious and difficult.”
Hutchinson grunted. “A vast understatement, Your Grace.”
The duke held out his empty glass. “One more of your fine whiskeys and then I will take myself off to reconnoiter the formidable opposition.”
But as it turned out, when the duke exited Hutchinson’s faux-Renaissance office block, he ran into Viscount Islay.
“Hi-ho, Fitz!” the viscount cried. “I hear you’re rid of Clarissa. What say you to a game at Brooks’s? ”
“Christ, gossip travels fast.” He’d just left Clarissa three hours ago.
“Margot Beaton stopped by to see my sister as I was leaving home. She was just down from Knolly’s country house party. She despises Clarissa by the way.”
“Most women do,” the duke replied drily.
“And most men don’t.”
Groveland raised his dark brows in sportive rejoinder. “But then Clarissa exerts herself to please men.”
“How much did she exert herself for you?” the viscount quipped.
“She wore me out, hence my rustication in the city. And I’d be more than happy to take some of your money at Brooks’s,” the duke said with a smile, uninterested in discussing Clarissa after a fortnight in her company.
Freddie Mackenzie grinned. “You can try, you mean.”
“But not very hard as I recall?”
Freddie was sober, however, so he paid attention to his cards and taking his money required a degree more concentration than normal for Fitz. But the duke was as lucky at cards as he was with women and ultimately he prospered for having met the viscount.
In the course of their play, the men met several other of their friends, one thing led to another, and it was well after midnight when Fitz stood under Brooks’s portico, inhaling the tepid night air and debating his options. There were numerous ladies more than willing to welcome him to their beds despite the hour, but after only recently escaping Clarissa he wasn’t particularly in the mood to play amorous games. Clarissa could suck the life out of a twenty-year-old stud, not to mention her propensity for banal conversation took away one’s taste-at least temporarily-for vapid female company.
Her acrobatic abilities aside, he should have sent her home a week ago.
Had he been less polite perhaps he wouldn’t now be beset by ennui and indecision.
He abruptly shrugged, having long ago decided that regret was a useless commodity. Bidding a friendly goodnight to Crawford, the seemingly immortal doorman, he took the stairs in a leap and strolled away toward Berkeley Square and home.
Tomorrow he would meet with the intractable Mrs. St. Vincent.
He much preferred tomorrows to yesterdays in any event-his life predicated on the maxim Never look back. A reaction perhaps to a complicated, chaotic childhood.
And truth be told, he was looking forward to the confrontation-discussion, negotiation… whatever his encounter with Mrs. St. Vincent entailed.
He was rather of the mind that he would win the day, though.
Didn’t he always?
Chapter 2
WHILE THE DUKE of Groveland was making his way home through the gaslit streets of Mayfair, Rosalind St. Vincent was seated at her writing table, nibbling at her penholder, trying to dredge up a synonym for penis that she hadn’t already used a million times. Not that she had the leisure to deliberate for long when the next installment of Lady Blessington’s Harem Adventure was scheduled for the printer in the morning and she still had ten pages to write.
Why not the eunuch’s golden horn? The story took place in Constantinople, after all; she rather liked the play on words. And the eunuch wasn’t really a eunuch-a nice little plot twist if she said so herself.
But not half as nice as the lucrative erotica market that her well-mannered, cultivated husband had discovered. Not that she had known about Edward’s alternate writing career until after his death when she’d discovered the manuscripts in his armoire. In the course of searching for something suitable in which to bury him, she’d found the neatly tied volumes hidden behind his coats, each cover page bearing a notation of the sum realized for the work.
She’d been shocked, both by the discovery and the substantial proceeds such stories commanded. Erotica appeared to be considerably more profitable than poetry.
While Edward had been lauded and feted when his first poems had been published and he’d savored his celebrity, it had soon become apparent that fame was fleeting and the earnings from his verse would not long sustain a household.
Of course, Edward’s unfortunate addiction to gaming had also contributed to their financial problems. As did his unfortunate lack of initiative. And his guileless propensity to befriend unsavory characters. He was gulled by swindlers and artful dodges on more occasions than she wished to recall-always by men he’d perceived as bosom compatriots.
She’d always forgiven him, though. He was so sweet and naive.
Perhaps they both had been at one time.
But someone had had to overcome youthful innocence and see the world with clarity. That task, by default, had fallen to her, and she’d mustered the wherewithal to face their challenges. She’d managed to garner enough from Edward’s successful second edition of Yorkshire Memories to purchase the bookstore and in doing so had kept them solvent.
Immediat
ely setting about to learn the trade, she’d asked questions and took advice from any successful merchant who was willing to respond to her queries. She’d also studied the prosperous bookstores in the city, noting which business practices, displays, and public readings drew the most customers. Very quickly-since their funds were limited-she’d mastered the necessary aspects of bookselling and merchandising. To those tried and true principles, she’d added particular elements of interest to her: a free library for the working poor, a small gallery where women artists could show their work, a Saturday evening reading group open to all. She also kept a steaming samovar on a table near the doorway so customers could help themselves to tea when they walked in.
The bookstore had granted them a modest living. But coming as they did from families of moderate means, they were well acquainted with living simply. While Rosalind had concentrated on managing the bookstore, Edward had written and published poems and, unbeknownst to her, authored the auxiliary works that had rendered him funds for gambling.
There had been times during the years of their marriage when she’d felt overwhelmed. Their financial resources were always stretched thin. But she’d never long succumbed to desolation-a testament perhaps to her father’s hearty spirits and her mother’s optimistic nature, which she’d inherited. Her mother had served as helpmate and inspiration to her father, who had spent a life engaged in scientific research. Eschewing fame and monetary recompense, he’d been intent on the pure joy of discovery.
So she’d fully understood Edward’s passion for poetry; she’d even sympathized with his fascination for gambling. She had only wished he might have been luckier at the tables. And slightly less moody. Stronger.
But they had both been so young when they married. Young and full of dreams.
She’d wondered more than once if he’d accidently fallen into the Thames that stormy night or whether he’d jumped from Westminster Bridge.
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