Gorgeous As Sin

by Susan Johnson

  As though intrinsic to such a noble display of wealth, a host of servants rushed out to greet them as the carriage came to a stop on the graveled drive.

  Fitz casually waved to his staff as he stepped out, then turned to help Rosalind alight. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “I am.”

  “Perhaps a little,” she murmured, distracted by the splendor of her surroundings. Light gleamed from every window, two tall bronze torchieres stood on either side of the wide bank of stairs, the pale limestone of the exterior shimmered in the twilight, the scent of jasmine pungent on the air. “Jasmine-lovely,” she said with a smile.

  “That’s why I like your perfume. It reminds me of Mertenside. I like it here. Come, we’ll say hello to the staff and then walk through the house to the river.”

  He introduced her to his majordomo and in general to the others lined up on the drive. She watched Fitz chat with several of his retainers as they slowly made their way to the house and was surprised at the casualness of his manner. No arrogant peer of the realm here, only a man comfortable with his staff.

  As they walked through twin bronze doors, held open by two footmen, Fitz turned to his majordomo, who was waving flunkeys before them to open further doors. “Tell Hector we could use a little something to eat. He needn’t go out of his way. Something simple. And champagne, Chandler. The ’73.”

  Rosalind gazed with awe at the rooms they passed through, the decor lifted wholesale from Versailles, although the rococo furniture was oversize, clearly made for a man, while the sumptuous carpets were pure silk and so plush her feet sank into them.

  Strangely, the opulent interiors enhanced Fitz’s dark masculinity, the stark contrast between gilt and damask, Chinoiserie wallpaper and graceful furniture only making his strength and virility more conspicuous. Just as a splendid animal outrivaled a trivial display of gilded luxury.

  Or a powerful lord minimized his environment.

  When they’d walked to the end of an enfilade of rooms and reached the terrace doors, Fitz said, “Thank you, Chandler. That will be all.” And with a faint bow, he offered his arm to Rosalind.

  They walked out into the twilight again, strolled down a shallow flight of marble stairs, and set out across a velvety swath of lawn that sloped down to the river.

  “It is magical,” Rosalind commented softly, the evening sky still golden on the horizon, the birds making music in the trees, the river slowly flowing by. “The house, the parkland-everything’s so lush and green.”

  “Thank you. Mertenside’s my haven from the city.”

  “Do you come here often? ”

  “As often as I can. Would you like to sit outside or inside?” He indicated a glass summer house on the river bank.

  “Outside. I was inside all day.”

  “Was the store busy? ” he politely asked.

  “Not in the afternoon. It was too hot for anyone to be out.”

  “It has been unseasonably warm even for August,” Fitz affably returned, wondering how long it would be before Mrs. St. Vincent would be interested in more than conversation.

  Rosalind, in turn, was wondering if she’d again misjudged Groveland. Was he less a rogue than she thought? Was rumor wrong? Could he be a man like any other?

  Two bottles of champagne later, Rosalind was thinking of other things. She was wondering in metaphorical terms whether she would allow herself to have her cake and eat it, too. Even though she shouldn’t even be thinking about cake.

  Fitz took note of the change in her demeanor-with gratitude.

  She laughed freely now, teased him on occasion, and answered his questions without caution. Although he was careful to ask only questions she’d find unexceptional.

  It was a proverbial cat-and-mouse game, yet at a more subtle level: the question of who played which role wasn’t clear.

  Not that Fitz could ever be accused of being anyone’s prey. But susceptible he certainly was to the lady’s outrageous allure.

  As for Rosalind, she more demonstrably fell victim to Fitz’s noted charm, but then his skills in that regard were legendary.

  “You are indeed an attractive rogue,” she said some time later, half raising her glass to him. Dinner had been superb, the champagne was like drinking stars, her companion was surely one of the most charming of men; she was content and happy to a degree that had eluded her for a very long time.

  “As you know, I find you the most beautiful of women,” he said, smiling back. “Would you like more champagne? ” Without waiting for an answer, he picked up the bottle, rose from his chair opposite her, topped off her glass, and sat back down.

  She was lounging on a large chaise upholstered in brilliant scarlet raw silk, the contrast of color against the saffron of her gown dramatic.

  “You could be one of Alexander the Great’s ladies from his India campaign in your Grecian gown, lying on that hot red silk,” he softly said. “Roxana perhaps instead of Rosalind.”

  “And you have the look of a swarthy corsair, dressed all in black with your shirt collar open, your feet bare, and your black hair ruffled from the breeze.”

  “If you like, we could pretend-”

  “Or not,” she interrupted. Setting her glass on the table beside the chaise, she decided that she’d fought off her desires long enough. The man was God’s gift to women and not just physically… well, perhaps especially there, she thought, recalling his stamina of the night past. “At the risk of sounding like the most shallow of women,” she said, prettily crinkling her nose, “I find you much too handsome in every respect.”

  “And? ” He knew the rest, but he was polite.

  “I was wondering if you’d like to do something other than talk.”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  She smiled. “Do you always just sit back and wait, Groveland? I suppose you do.”

  “I wasn’t exactly sure how to play Lancelot,” he replied, sportive and teasing.

  “I’m not sure I care.”

  “Ah, in that case…” Having been given license, he came to his feet, walked the few steps to her chaise, and sat beside her. The lounge chair was big enough for two for a reason, not that he had women to Mertenside often. But occasionally he did.

  “Tell me I’m not the thousandth woman you’ve made love to on this chaise.” Even as she spoke she had no idea why it mattered with a man like Groveland. And so she said a second later, “Strike that last comment. It’s quite irrelevant.”

  “You’re not the thousandth, or even the hundredth or twentieth. Is that better? ”

  “No, none of this is better in any way.” She made a small moue. “This is all very much a breach of custom for me. But I want the pleasure you bring me.” She shrugged. “I expect it’s the champagne talking.”

  He smiled. “Like last night.”

  She laughed. “Indeed. Give me another last night and I’ll be content.”

  “When do you have to be back? ”

  “It depends,” she said to the insinuation in his query.

  “Good.” They were in agreement then. “Would you like to go to the house? ”

  “If it’s private here, no. The night is beautiful.”

  “It’s completely private.”

  She half turned to him on the chaise and softly sighed. “I wish I didn’t feel this way. I should go home.”

  “I don’t want you to go home. In fact,” he murmured, shifting slightly so he could brush a finger over the brooch on her right shoulder, “I’ve been thinking of unclasping this ever since I saw you at the National Gallery. And by the way,” he said, softly, “you lit up the room.”

  “How charming you are. I almost believe you.”

  “Believe me, darling. I haven’t been able to get you out of my thoughts.”

  “Nor I, you, when I should.” She grimaced. “You’re the enemy.”

  “No… we’re lovers in the moonlight,” he whispered. “And I promise to be gentle.”

  “Right now, I’m not sure that’s necessary.”
Her gaze was amused. “I’m hot, hot, hot-touch me… you’ll see.”

  He did then, tracing the swell of one breast partially visible in the deep vee of her gown, his fingers rough against the silk of her skin.

  “Yours aren’t the hands of a prince of the blood,” she said gently, lifting his hand to her mouth and brushing the pads of his fingers over her lips, remembering his touch from the previous night. A tiny frisson raced through her body at the memory. “These are a workman’s hands.”

  “I play polo and ride without gloves, and shoot”-he shrugged-“and do most everything myself.”

  She smiled. “Just so long as you do this yourself, I’m content.”

  “Believe me, I wouldn’t relinquish this role to God himself.”

  “How sweet.”

  “I’m not in the least sweet, darling.” Drawing his hand away, he began to shrug out of his jacket.

  “So I recall with great fondness,” she purred, kicking off her sandals. “Do you want to undo these pins?” She pointed at the brooches.

  He grinned. “It’s been my dearest wish all evening. I’ll be right with you,” he added, quickly unbuttoning his waistcoat.

  Tantalized and restive, conscious of their mutual impatience, she watched him discard his waistcoat, slip his suspenders off his shoulders, tug the studs from his evening shirt with one jerk, slip the garment over his head, and toss it aside. Drawing in a small breath at the sight of his powerfully muscled torso, she felt the pulsing between her legs shamelessly pay homage to his potent virility. He was lean and taut, bronzed by the sun or dark by nature, honed to the inch by polo perhaps or maybe his boudoir athletics. And her every sexual nerve and receptor responded to his raw maleness with giddy eagerness. Philanderer he might be, the Don Juan stud of London, but he was so immeasurably fine, she was quite willing to overlook his rash prodigality for one more night of pleasure.

  Pushing herself upright on the chaise, she clasped her hands in her lap to stop their excessive trembling. And unlike last night, she couldn’t blame her long celibacy for her feverish desires. Tonight it was lust pure and simple.

  Glancing up from unbuttoning his trousers, he whispered, “Wait for me.”

  She nodded, unable to speak, clenching her hands more tightly.

  Recognizing Mrs. St. Vincent’s precipitous arousal, remembering her tendency to impatience, he abruptly dispensed with his undressing and turned to her before it was too late. “Here, darling, I’m here,” he murmured, slipping his hand under her skirt, shoving the silk fabric aside with his other hand, briefly surprised she was sans drawers. Quickly dropping the back of the chaise to a horizontal position, he bent to kiss her, his hand sliding between her legs. At her soft moan, he carefully slid one finger into her tight pussy-Christ-really tight pussy, and at her little whimper, stopped.

  “No, no…” she breathed into his mouth.

  “Sorry.” He jerked his finger out.

  “What are you doing?” A blurted gasp and then she shoved his hand back.

  Far be it for him to gauge her pain threshold, he decided, and proceeded to do as she wished. Not that he wasn’t handy with his fingers. Not that he didn’t feel strangely responsible that the lady’s orgasm be gratifying.

  But she was slightly swollen. He could feel the difference from last night, although in very short order-he should have known-she shifted into her frenzied mode, her tissue turned moist, succulent, and pliable, and he was able to make progress.

  Increasingly heated whimpers echoed in the night. The lady’s hair-trigger libido was in fine form and she climaxed before long, screaming in her wild, willful fashion-the sound ringing out over the verdant lawns and moonlit river.

  Wiping his finger on his trousers a few moments later, he silently watched her until her eyes slowly opened. “It’s always a race with you, isn’t it? ” he said, grinning.

  “I appreciate your benevolence,” she whispered. “I couldn’t wait.”

  “I could tell.”

  “I want you next time, though. You’re better.”

  He shook his head. “Maybe we shouldn’t tonight. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

  “I feel fine-really.” She grinned. “Especially now. Please-I want you inside me.” Just saying the words sent an anticipatory flutter up her vagina. But then as Sofia had pointed out, he was the gold standard.

  Fitz blew out a breath. “It’s tempting as hell, darling, but I don’t know.” He held up one finger. “This is all you can accommodate.”

  She sat up. “Why don’t we try?” Reaching over, she unbuttoned one of his trouser buttons still undone.

  He stopped her, his hand hard on hers. “No, let’s not.” It wasn’t as though he’d been abstinent anytime the decade past. He could wait.

  “Then let me see that you come another way.”

  No fool he, he lifted his hand from hers.

  “I’m enamored of your lovely cock.” Looking up from her unbuttoning, she smiled at him prettily. “If you don’t mind.”

  He grinned. “What do you think I’ll say? ”

  Her brows flickered in facetious reply. “Tell me if you like it later.”

  “I can tell you right now I will.” The thought of her mouth on his cock added inches to his erection.

  After she’d opened his trousers, she unbuttoned his silk underwear. As she pulled his rigid upthrust penis away from his stomach, he slowly inhaled, waiting for her to lower her head.

  But she didn’t. She traced his length with her fingertips, partially circled it with her fist, brushed the shiny crest with her knuckles, lightly squeezed his testicles. Gently she stroked his engorged length, up and down and over again.

  He was breathing hard at this point, growing frustrated and wondering suspiciously why she was toying with him. “If you don’t mind,” he said tautly, taking her head between his hands, “I need more than that.” And cupping her head with one hand, he pressed downward, grasped his cock in his other hand, and brought her mouth on target.

  Fighting his hold, she looked up, wide-eyed. “Am I supposed to put this huge thing in my mouth? ”

  The little vixen was toying with him. And fuck if it wasn’t working; his cock increased sizeably. “It’s no bigger than it was last night,” he said, and shoved her head back down.

  “Oh yes it is.”

  But the last of her words were muffled as her lips closed over his cock.

  He gasped at the initial contact and then he shut his eyes against the agonizing pleasure as she slowly drew him in, and when his cock bumped the back of her throat, he softly groaned.

  He had no idea why her mouth was any different than any other woman’s mouth, but it was. Nor did he understand why her tongue licking the flanges of the crest of his cock and gliding down the shaft made him break into a cold sweat, made him think of words like nirvana and everlasting bliss. Made him consider coming in two seconds like a green adolescent. But he didn’t because he knew how good it would feel if he repressed that impulse-a lesson learned long ago-and he let the lady continue.

  He couldn’t know of course that Rosalind had other plans. Devious, selfish plans, she’d learned yesterday, worked well. Wanting what she wanted, she thought with an inner smile, like Groveland. And she rather thought she’d be successful because his observations about her receptivity aside, she knew her body rather better than he. Or at least since she’d met the darling of every lady in London she’d come to know her body-and the creamy droplets running down her thighs meant she’d have him.

  When the duke’s breathing grew labored, when she felt his penis begin to twitch, she quickly lifted her head and said to his astonished gaze, “Don’t move,” and a second later was straddling his thighs.

  He said, “No,” but with little conviction this near orgasm.

  “Oh yes,” she said in her prim schoolmistress voice that under other circumstances might have been grating but now sounded like the “Hallelujah Chorus” to his ears, and before he could take another labored
breath, she was sliding down his cock.

  Not easily, but so incredibly and exquisitely snugly, he thought his head would explode from the rapturous friction.

  He didn’t move; he didn’t so much as twitch a muscle, not wishing to hurt her-and even more, not wanting her to stop. And when she finally did, when she was impaled well and good on his cock, he decided life couldn’t get any better than this.

  But she slowly raised herself and settled back down again and life got considerably better. And in the following few minutes as she moved up and down he saw the world in vivid colors previously obscured, heard birdsong with fresh clarity, felt a soul-stirring delirium warm his senses.

  He held her gently when she finally climaxed, and only after she raised her head from his shoulder and kissed his cheek, did he lift her away and come himself.

  He wondered afterward as he silently wiped himself dry with his shirt whether their adversarial roles in the Monckton Row project somehow accentuated his passions. Whether hostility in one arena turned to violent feeling in another? Because he’d never felt this mad hysteria and impatience, the raging lust as he did with the delectable Mrs. St. Vincent.

  When Fitz hadn’t spoken for some time, Rosalind quietly said, “Are you angry with me? ”

  “No, God no,” he said, quickly refocusing his attention. “Far from it.”

  “Oh good. I wouldn’t want you to think me a conniving female.”

  He laughed. “Hardly. You’re enchanting.”

  His urbane reply reminded her of what he was. A virtuoso at this game while she was a tyro. And perhaps in a libertine’s world, she’d outstayed her welcome. “I should be getting home,” she said, offering him an opportunity to conclude her visit.

  “Why don’t we go inside? It’s cooling off.”

  “You needn’t be polite.”

  More than cursory politeness after sex wasn’t his strong suit, but then nothing about Mrs. St. Vincent fit his normal pattern. “I’m not being polite. I enjoy your company.”