She paused briefly in consideration, then looking at him from under her lashes, coquettishly said, “Very well. The Savoy at four.”
He smiled. “Excellent. Do you like roses?”
“Of course, darling.” She reached out and ran her fingers down the fine silk of his waistcoat in a proprietary gesture. “Red roses,” she murmured in a sultry contralto.
Watching Miss Baldwin walk away, it took him a moment to collect himself, having only narrowly averted a scene. And he well knew she was not a woman who gave up gracefully. After Charlotte’s costume ball, she’d relentlessly pursued him, going so far as to call at his home. Fortunately, the race season had begun at the time and he was rarely in London. As for the Savoy engagement, time enough to deal with that tomorrow. Right now, he had more pleasant prospects in mind.
For the remaining hours of the exhibit, he avoided Miss Baldwin and unostentatiously pursued Mrs. St. Vincent. Rather than offering posies and charming phrases in the usual seduction, Fitz cultivated the lady’s good will instead by purchasing a dozen paintings.
Rosalind was naturally delighted. She was further enchanted by his amiable rapport with her artist friends; she had not thought a peer of Groveland’s consequence could be so unaffected. Particularly after his high-handed arrogance that morning.
But he turned out to be enormously gracious and engaging, even so kind as to send for champagne from his cellar for her guests. Rosalind couldn’t help but be gratified. She found herself reconsidering her previous judgment, viewing him now in a much more favorable light.
After all, the show was a huge success thanks in part to Groveland’s largesse. The women artists she sponsored were considerably more prosperous-again, thanks to the duke.
Sofia, apparently, was in accord when it came to Groveland’s benevolence for she spoke up for him sometime later as they were refilling trays of sweets in Rosalind’s kitchen. “You might want to change your mind about Groveland, darling. Not only is he a generous patron of the arts, he’s really quite lovely in any number of ways. As you may have noticed.”
Rosalind gave her friend an arch look. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from him. Is he not known for his cultivated graces?”
“I’d say his manner is particularly affable to you.”
“Please,” Rosalind said. “He has ulterior motives as you well know.”
“Of course he does, and if I were you, I’d seriously consider taking him up on his offer.”
“Sell my store!” Rosalind tossed a mutinous look her friend’s way. “Never!”
“I meant, darling,” Sofia soothingly replied, “why not spend the night with him and let him gratify your senses? He is in great demand for all the right reasons-very large reasons, I’ve heard.”
“For heaven’s sake, Sofia!”
“Some say he posed for Zeus in Noland’s Rape of Danae,” Sofia went on undeterred, Rosalind’s rosy flush indicating interest-whether she realized it or not. “Have you seen the painting?” Sofia’s pale brows rose in signal hyperbole. “Very impressive male anatomy.”
“I rather think the correspondent from Country Life will be taking advantage of Groveland’s impressive anatomy tonight,” Rosalind said with a little sniff.
Sofia looked up from the petit fours she was placing in neat rows on a tray. “I think it bothers you that she might.”
“It certainly does not!”
“Please, I’ve know you too long. Be honest-it does.”
“Well if it does, it shouldn’t,” Rosalind crisply retorted.
“Yorkshire rules? Come, darling, you’re in London now. There aren’t any rules when it comes to passion. Here it’s strictly about self-indulgence or better yet,” she added with a wink, “overindulgence.”
“I’m not interested in passion or indulgence of any kind,” Rosalind firmly said, as if a resolute delivery would translate to an equal decisiveness in her mind.
“Of course you are,” Sofia calmly returned. “Despite your protests. So why not indulge in the breathless joys of passion? And who better than Groveland to offer you those pleasures?”
Rosalind smiled tolerantly at her friend; how many times had they covered this subject in the course of her widowhood? “While you may embrace such breathless sensibilities, my life is about customers and sales, book orders and events like this. But should the time ever come when I’m in the grip of your thrilling emotions, you can be sure I’ll consider gratifying them.”
“Perhaps later tonight,” Sofia slyly murmured.
“No, not tonight.” Rosalind placed the last strawberry tart in place and picked up the tray. “Now enough nonsense. Let’s see if we can sell another painting.”
As a matter of fact, several more paintings were eventually sold, and by eleven the gallery guests were departing, the tarts and petit fours were all eaten, the champagne drunk, and a sense of an evening well spent pervaded the air.
Groveland was standing beside Rosalind as the clock struck the hour.
Taking note of the time, he said, “It’s getting late. Thank you for a lovely evening.” His smile was practiced, but Mrs. St. Vincent was quite inexplicably redefining his casual regard for the women in his life. She inspired a rare predatory instinct; he disliked the feeling. “I’ll send my men in the morning to collect my paintings.” It had been a mistake to come.
No, don’t go! Rosalind impulsively thought, only to instantly equivocate. Just say goodnight; do not become involved with the much too charming Duke of Groveland.
Who, unfortunately, wanted her store.
It may have been gypsy fate that Sofia walked over at that moment, or random chance or kismet. Or perhaps scheming design. She was clinging to the arm of the Times art critic, who in turn was holding up a bottle of Fitz’s champagne. “If we open this last bottle, will you two have a drink with us?” Sofia brightly inquired. “Since we seem to be the only ones left.”
“I wouldn’t mind a glass,” Fitz heard himself say. So much for reason in the presence of a hot-spur libido.
“I don’t know,” Rosalind objected politely, her voice of reason still operating. “It is late.”
“How long will it take to drink one glass?” Sofia coaxed, intent on Rosalind taking advantage of Groveland’s obvious interest when her dearest friend had been celibate too long. “One little drink, darling,” she cajoled, “to celebrate the success of the show and my increased fortune.”
Since Sofia’s good fortune was due to Groveland’s numerous purchases, Rosalind relented. Or told herself she did because of that. “Very well. One drink.”
The die was cast.
Not that Rosalind knew until later.
But Sofia did.
And Fitz did.
In fact, he knew with such certainty that he literally checked his watch as if marking the time when he’d carried the day. Or night as it were. As for his obsession with Mrs. St. Vincent, by morning he’d have had his fill of her and he could get on with his life.
Retiring to the back of the store, the two couples found seats on worn sofas Rosalind kept there for customers of her free library who needed a bed for the night. The couches’ frayed frieze upholstery and scuffed mahogany trim, the stacks of books littering the floor, the night sounds of the city drifting in through the open window were all irrelevant to the cozy group drinking champagne and exchanging postmortem comments on the show.
Rosalind was surprised at Groveland’s comprehensive understanding of the newest trends in modern art. She felt quite out of her element as the three others discussed the Paris and London art shows of recent years: the artists of note, those on the rise, the avant-garde styles most likely to endure. She realized that Groveland had a life beyond his scandalous reputation; she understood, too, that Sofia might have been right. Perhaps she was pleased after all that the Country Life siren had not taken Groveland away.
But as quickly as she acknowledged his sexual attraction, she recognized how out of character it would be to yield to her impu
lses. She was not a free spirit like Sofia. Furthermore, she reflected, ticking off additional reasons to reject the infamous Groveland, her capitulation would mean less than nothing to a man who, according to rumor, had slept with untold women.
Is he really that good?
The unspeakable thought stunned and electrified her senses.
Sent a shiver up her spine.
He noticed and turning to her, murmured solicitously, “Would you like my jacket?”
“No, no… I’m fine… really,” Rosalind stammered, quickly looking away from the tantalizing query in his gaze.
“You’re sure.”
He knows, she thought. He can tell. She forced a smile and said in a scrupulously neutral tone, “It must have been a draft from the window.”
Fortunately, at that moment Sofia asked him a question about the Royal Academy that initiated a lengthy conversation. And by the time Sofia had fully vented her myriad resentments on the stupid old men controlling the annual judging, Rosalind had composed her restive emotions.
Before long, the champagne exhausted, Sofia rose, took her partner’s hand, and pulled him to his feet. “I don’t know about you,” she said with a wink for Rosalind and Fitz, “but we have better things to do. Right?” Rising on tiptoe, she brushed Arthur Godwin’s cheek with a kiss.
“Absolutely.” He grinned. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting.”
“Since last year at Michaelmas when I met you in Chelsea,” Sofia matter-of-factly declared.
“Before,” he softly returned. He was slender and fine-featured, handsome in the style of the first Duke of Buckingham.
Sofia’s eyes widened. “Where?”
“Three years ago. You were in a box at Covent Garden.”
“You’ll have to tell me all about it,” Sofia said, smiling. “Ciao, darlings,” she cheerfully proclaimed, and waving to Rosalind and Fitz, she pulled her admirer from the room.
An awkward silence fell.
Skilled at putting women at ease, Fitz spoke first. “Miss Eastleigh is vastly talented.” He smiled faintly. “She’s also somewhat of a modern woman.”
Rosalind blushed. “Very much so.”
Another small silence ensued.
“I should go.” A politesse; perhaps not. Nothing was as it should be tonight.
There was the veriest pause and then, resisting what were clearly perilous desires, Rosalind said, “Yes, it’s quite late.” She came to her feet. “Thank you again for your patronage.”
He hadn’t been rebuffed by a woman since… actually, never. But Mrs. St. Vincent was standing very straight, her hands clenched at her sides, and even knowing she was suppressing her desires, he had no intention of forcing himself on her. He’d never forced himself on a woman, nor was he about to begin. Particularly when he wasn’t even sure he should be here.
Equivocation scented the air; it had all evening.
Rising from the couch, he sketched her an elegant bow. “Thank you for your hospitality. My men will come round in the morning for the paintings.” Turning, he walked away, the evening not completely wasted; he’d added some splendid paintings to his collection. More important, Mrs. St. Vincent had been restored to her rightful place in his life. Someone at cross purposes with him in business and nothing more.
Halfway through the store, the front door in sight, he heard her. Or had he? The sound was so faint he may have imagined her voice. Be sensible, he said to himself. But he turned back-like a dog in heat, he thought, thin-skinned and moody.
She was standing well distant in the gallery, the colorful paintings at her back, her hands still clenched at her sides. But she said, “Stay,” this time clearly enough that there was no misunderstanding.
Her breathing was rapid, her lush breasts rising and falling in the most flaunting display; her skin was flushed, and even across the breadth of the store it was obvious she was sexually aroused.
He suddenly felt as if he were being offered a rare prize-this from a man indisposed to flights of fancy, a man who’d always considered undue emotion a weakness. Had he drunk too much? But even as he considered the possibility, he was closing the distance between them. And whatever impulse drove him, when he stopped before her and saw the tremulous desire shining in her eyes, he understood that he was a very lucky man.
That and nothing more.
No thoughts of property negotiations or winning entered his mind. No further nebulous uncertainties about subversive emotion clouded his thinking. Not even a scintilla of sexual triumph registered in his brain. All he felt was an exaggerated sense of pleasure.
“Thank you for calling me back.” His smile was very close, urbanity stripped from his voice. “I’m extremely happy and I don’t exactly know why.”
“I know less why I called to you,” she answered so softly he had to lean in to hear her.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you did.” Simple words simply spoken, a sense of inevitability so sweet he could taste it.
She was agitated, uncertain.
He knew better than to make a sudden move and frighten her.
Then she swayed forward an infinitesimal distance; to anyone not involved in the fevered encounter, the movement would have gone unnoticed. “I’m very pleased you came tonight,” she whispered.
“Then we both are.” A velvet soft utterance freely given, knotty issues dismissed.
She knew he wasn’t alluding to the art show or the paintings he’d purchased, and drawing in a small breath, she wondered how long it had been since she’d lain with a man. Or more to the point, a man of unparalleled physical perfection and immoderate charm, a man for whom she felt a fierce, wild passion unlike anything she’d ever known.
“Perhaps kismet actually exists,” he offered with a smile.
Her eyes flared wide. “Do you think so?”
He was about to say no, but she looked so genuinely artless, he didn’t have the heart. “I do.”
“You’re not just saying that.”
“No.” A kindness not a lie. “People more clever than I subscribe to the theory. And consider how many thousands of years the concept has shaped people’s destiny.”
“So you’re saying destiny is involved tonight.”
By any standard her smile was flirtatious, her uncertainty suddenly replaced by a playful drollery. “All I know is there’s no place I’d rather be,” he said very softly, astonished at the pleasure he felt quite apart from lust.
“Well put, although I suspect you’re better acquainted with these situations than I.”
“Not this particular one.” His brows rose. “I have no explanation.”
She smiled. “How sweet-and generally effective, I expect.”
“On the contrary, I’m quite sincere.” He had no idea why he felt compelled to such frankness when prevarication had always rendered better service in circumstances such as this.
She held his gaze for a second, weighing her preconceived notions against Groveland’s candor. Quickly deciding that truth or pretense mattered little when their desires were so clearly aligned. “I suppose,” she said, perhaps just a trifle briskly for the world of dalliance, “we shouldn’t just stand here.”
A teasing light instantly warmed his eyes. “I know I’d rather not.” He couldn’t accuse her of coyness. She was so obviously unfamiliar with the game, it was going to be like deflowering a virgin.
Not that he had personal knowledge, having always avoided virgins. But Mrs. St. Vincent was definitely an innocent when it came to amorous play. Of that he was certain.
“Should we go upstairs?”
But she’d balled her fists again when speaking as though facing the hangman instead of a night of pleasure, so he decided kisses might be in order first for the widow. “In a minute,” he murmured, and dipping his head, he kissed her gently in reassurance and even more gently placed his hands on her shoulders and slowly drew her close.
Allowing her ample time to change her mind should she wish to.
Instead, she gasped-in astonishment and wonder. Had he known…
But he didn’t. And he debated how long he would be obliged to play the modest lover and restrict himself to kisses. Sweet as they were, he thought with an equivalent astonishment.
But suddenly, she threw her arms around his neck, melted into his body, and breathed against the warmth of his mouth, “Forgive me for being so brazen, but you make me feel ever so good…”
“I’m glad,” he whispered, sliding his hands downward, cupping her bottom, holding her hard against his cock.
Another little gasp, and she breathed whisper soft, “You’re… enormous!”
Suppressing his impulse to say, “The better to fuck you with,” he kissed her less sweetly, with the novel urgency Mrs. St. Vincent inspired even as he searched for the door to her upstairs apartment. Finally-there-stairs were visible through a half-opened door in the far corner. Quickly lifting his head, he swept her up in his arms and said with a smile, “I’m taking you upstairs. Feel free to stop me at any time.” A politesse only; God himself couldn’t have stopped him.
“I won’t,” she whispered, clinging to his neck, her words excusing him from possible sacrilege. “I want you too much.”
“I want you more,” he said with an easy smile.
“Impossible.”
“I doubt it.” The lady smiling up at him was a restorative to his jaded soul, tremulous and needy, dew fresh and beautiful.
Her brows rose. “Care to make a wager?”
He almost took her right there, the possibility of dueling lechery racheting up his libido another ten notches. “Anything you like, darling,” he said, controlling his lust with effort.
“Do you feel lucky?”
He laughed. “Damned right.”
“Me, too.” Tonight was serendipity, pure and simple, she thought, reveling in the blissful illogic. After a lifetime devoted to undeviating steadiness, she was experiencing a degree of covetousness beyond the perimeters of memory.
Gorgeous As Sin Page 6
