Gorgeous as Sin (17 page)

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.”

“The sex you mean.”

“Very well, the sex.” He smiled and began buttoning his trousers. “Come inside anyway.”

“I’d love to.”

“You’re a refreshing little puss. No pretense. I like that.”

Brushing her skirt back down, she said with a sweet smile, “You know what I like about you.”

 

 

NEITHER ONE SLEPT much that night. Neither was willing to forego the pleasure. Both considered such chimerical, high-flying sensations fleeting and best savored in the here and now.

She shouldn’t want him so.

He shouldn’t crave her with such rash disregard for their strategic differences.

But she did and he did and reason took a holiday that summer night at Mertenside. He ordered them a snack long after midnight, his kitchen willingly obliged him, and they ate on the balcony outside his bedroom, lying side by side on a chaise meant for one. He found she giggled and adored it when he’d never liked women who giggled. And he further endeared himself to her by reciting wholesale her favorite poem, Byron’s “The Destruction of Sennacherib.”

“I’m impressed,” she whispered, kissing him afterward. “That’s a very long poem.” She wanted to say,
Did you learn it for a woman?
but didn’t so as not to shatter the affectionate mood.

“My governess liked it,” he said, scrupulously refraining from adding more, the evening and company more agreeable than any in memory.

Comforted and disburdened of her jealousy, she gently touched his cheek. “You bring me enormous pleasure, darling Fitz.”

“I haven’t felt this good since . . .” He shrugged.

“Since you last came? ”

He laughed. “Tart.”

“And glad of it.”

“Not as much as I, darling. Would you like to try a bed in another bedroom for variety? ”

“I thought you’d never ask . . .”

When morning came, they repeated the bland courtesies of the previous morning but without the argument this time. And after a delightful bath and an early breakfast, Fitz had them driven back into the city. They parted at Bruton Street Books with well-bred politesse. Both were careful not to speak of future meetings, but they were careful as well, not to rule them out.

It had been a night of memorable pleasure.

Chapter 20

GOOD MORNING, YOUR Grace.”

“Good morning, Mallory. Quite a nice day in the making out there,” Fitz cheerfully said as he entered Groveland House. “Bring me coffee in the study.” It was too early for his mother to be out of bed; he needn’t play host yet.

For a fraction of a second Mallory debated ruining the duke’s good mood, the staff protective of the young master—as they called him in private, the term of endearment impervious to the passage of time. The majordomo glanced at the envelope on a silver salver set on a table in the center of the entrance hall and understanding what was required of him, cleared his throat. “Mr. Hutchinson sent a message early this morning, Your Grace.” He moved to the table and picked up the envelope. “Hutchinson’s man said it was urgent.”

They’ve found something.
His pulse rate quickening, Fitz took the envelope held out to him, ripped it open, and pulled out the card enough to read the single line:
The search was productive.
Glancing up, Fitz said, “Send some bacon and toast with the coffee. And tell the duchess when she wakes that my schedule will be uncertain today.” Shoving the note into his jacket pocket, he set off across the grand baroque entrance hall transported from Rome by some long-ago ancestor.

While not yet in full possession of the facts, but knowing that Edward St. Vincent had been involved in illegal activities, Fitz experienced a moment of triumph. Not that he’d seriously considered failure. With enough money, one could always find capable people willing to perform a service. The bromide
The end justifies the means
was a respected business practice for the industrialists, financiers, and wealthy landowners who ruled Britannia.

Fitz was no exception; he played the game his way with his rules. Within the law, of course. But then that’s why Hutchinson was on permanent retainer—to distinguish the legal nuances. Not that Fitz felt he’d stepped over the line in regard to Mrs. St. Vincent. She would be handsomely paid for her property. Very handsomely indeed.

As for his small niggling unease undermining a sense of total victory, he reminded himself that Rosalind would soon be a woman of no small wealth. Her life would be considerably altered for the better because of his purchase. She could even buy herself some new furniture, and if she didn’t, he would.

By the time he reached his study, he’d rationalized away all the disquieting issues having to do with pretense and evasion and dispatched the lot to perdition. Coffee arrived practically on his heels and in short order, he was enjoying the morning paper with his breakfast.

As he was reading the latest reports on the civil unrest in South Africa, Stanley appeared in the doorway. “I apologize for interrupting, Your Grace, but there’s a rather... delicate matter . . .”

“No need to apologize. Come in,” Fitz offered, immune to delicate matters after all the scandals in his past. He set aside the paper. “Would you like coffee? ”

“No thank you, Your Grace.”

“Sit down.” Fitz waved him to a chair. “What can I do for you? ”

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t bother you about the matter, Your Grace, since you instructed me to handle these, er, situations myself. But, the thing is,” Stanley went on, sitting on the edge of his chair, “Lady Buckley has been most persistent and . . . well, that is . . . I’m at a loss how to deal with her demands.”

Fitz grinned. “Can’t tell a peeress to go the hell, you mean.”

Stanley sighed. “I’m not sure even that would help. She doesn’t take no for an answer. Yesterday, she sent three notes, then dispatched her personal maid with a further message in which she threatened to descend on Groveland House herself if you didn’t reply. I had to make clear to her maid that you literally were
not
at home; I wasn’t simply respecting your privacy. Your mother didn’t even know where you’d gone, I said. Lady Buckley’s maid finally accepted my explanation.” He grimaced. “It was most disturbing.”

“I happened to speak to Lady Buckley last night at the Turner show at the National Gallery. I doubt she’ll bother you.”

The young man’s expression brightened. “Perfect, sir. Then I shan’t be deluged with her ultimatums today.”

Fitz half smiled. “I can’t fully guarantee that. I may have left Lady Buckley in a pet. But, look, my dear boy, should Clarissa come to the house, let her in. If I’m home, I’ll be happy to see her. And if I’m not, she’ll soon realize she’s wasting her time.”

Stanley pursed his mouth. “It’s just that ladies don’t as a rule call on gentlemen.”

“Clarissa rather overlooks the rules, I’m afraid. Just do your best.”

Stanley blew out a breath. “Very well, Your Grace.”

“And consider, Stanley, if you can handle Clarissa, it’s good training for the machinations of Parliament. After you’ve worked for me for a time, I’d be happy to sponsor you as an aide to any number of members I know. Mother said you had an interest in government.”

“Yes, sir. I do, sir. I’d be most grateful for your sponsorship,” the young man said with feeling, clearly overwhelmed by the prospect. “Thank you so much, Your Grace.”

“You’re perfectly welcome. God knows we could use some intelligent men in government. Do what you can about Clarissa. But I’m relatively indifferent to her tantrums so don’t anguish over the situation.”

“I shall do my very best, sir.”

“I’m sure you will.” Fitz smiled. “Is there anything more? ”

“No, no, Your Grace.” Stanley jumped up. “Thank you for your advice and consideration.”

“Anytime, Stanley. We’re quite informal at Groveland House, so if you ever have a question about anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Clarissa was going to be a problem, Fitz reflected as Stanley walked out. Not that he hadn’t anticipated as much even before taking her to Green Grove. She was spoiled, impetuous, self-centered, and demanding. But she was also a hot little piece, which partially offset her volatile personality. Still, poor Stanley would have his hands full. Fitz glanced at the time, decided he still had leisure to go through his mail, and coming to his feet, walked to his desk. Stanley had stacked everything in neat piles, private correspondence, business documents that required his signature, the daily papers, magazines. Fitz quickly scanned the several notes and invitations Stanley understood required his perusal, even more quickly flipped through the business documents, pushed the papers aside, and sifted through the new periodicals.

If the cover of
Facts and Fantasy
hadn’t prominently displayed the title
The Duke’s Doxy
in a bold red font,
and
if an image of a scantily clad female with a peach in her hand hadn’t appeared beneath the title, Fitz wouldn’t have pulled the magazine from the pile and studied the cover with a frown. A frown that deepened as he turned to page ten and began reading the salacious account.

He swore under his breath several times as he read, and once finished, he leaned back in his chair and swore some more. The characters were clearly recognizable at least to him. With luck, not to others. He wasn’t concerned with scandal so much as he was infuriated at the lurid level of detail. Bitch. She’d used him. That’s why she’d asked so many questions that night. It wasn’t naďveté; it was a damned cross-examination!

So much for his unease over forcing Mrs. St. Vincent to sell. She apparently had no compunction about using
him
for profit. Still, hadn’t she made it clear from the start that it would be all-out war?

Sex aside—or maybe not. Perhaps sex was just a skirmish of another kind. Whatever it was, he had no intention of relinquishing the field of battle until it was tactically useful. In other words, when he’d had his fill of the lovely Mrs. St. Vincent.

 

 

THE BARRISTER WAS all smiles when Fitz walked into his office.

“Good morning, Your Grace. I have excellent news.”

“Then we both do,” Fitz replied. “Your men apparently found something.”

“Indeed. Mrs. St. Vincent was out last evening,” Hutchinson explained as Fitz took a seat across from him, “so my men took the opportunity to search her apartment and discovered rather a lot.” He smiled broadly. “Enough to justify a raid, Your Grace. More than enough.”

Fitz didn’t mention he’d been with Rosalind. “Perfect,” he said instead, brushing aside the slight prick of conscience that persisted despite his displeasure over her writing. “Should Mrs. St. Vincent be jailed in the course of this raid, see that she is immediately released,” he said, the state of England’s jails being what they were. “There’s no need to have her traumatized.”

It might be a little late for that once she’s dragged off to jail
, thought Hutchinson, but ever the circumspect retainer, he politely said, “I’ll attend to it, Your Grace.”

“Tell me now,” Fitz said, postponing his disclosure until hearing Hutchinson’s account. “What exactly did your men find? ”

“First, it seems Mrs. St. Vincent sells erotica from a small back room in her shop. Such sales are relatively common, so courts may not take issue, but such sales
do
come within the purview of Britain’s obscenity statutes. Of more significance, however, were the several manuscripts found in an armoire and the partially finished manuscript discovered in a desk drawer. There’s no question about the erotic content of these stories.”

“A partial manuscript? Did it have a title? ”

“Something about harems, I believe. It was in a different script than the manuscripts in the armoire.” Hutchinson pursed his lips for a moment. “My men concluded it was a woman’s hand. Very likely Mrs. St. Vincent’s.”

“I expect it was.”

“You must be referring to your news.”

Fitz nodded and pulled the small periodical from his pocket. “This week’s edition of
Facts and Fantasy
” he said, sliding it across Hutchinson’s desk. “The cover story is an account of my first night with Mrs. St. Vincent.” His brows rose. “In considerable detail.”

Hutchinson flipped through the magazine before setting it down. “So there’s no question the lady is involved in illegal publications.”

“None.”

“Then your ninety thousand is entirely safe.”

“Entirely.” He should have felt more satisfaction. Instead, Fitz was discontent, Hutchinson’s wretched Gustave Doré engraving of London’s teeming masses in a dark, brooding slumscape mirrored the sourness of Fitz’s mood. “I suppose since Mrs. St. Vincent appears to be the author of this unfinished manuscript, she’s in more difficulty than if only her husband’s manuscripts had come to light? ”

“Yes, of course. In the latter case, she could plead ignorance. Naturally, that is not the case with her own work. Perhaps you’d first like to apprise her of the facts,” Hutchinson offered, recognizing a hesitancy in Groveland he’d not seen before. “Let her know you know, as it were, and if she still doesn’t see the advantage of accepting your offer, then the possibility of a raid could be advanced to exert additional pressure. Unless you’ve changed your mind after, er . . .” He stopped, about to say
after getting to know Mrs. St. Vincent better
. With the lady under surveillance, Hutchinson knew not only that Rosalind had gone to the National Gallery but also that she’d left with Groveland.

“No, not with ninety thousand at stake.”

“I wanted to be sure.” Hutchinson should have known better with Groveland’s penchant for discarding lovers. “In that case, I’ll begin the process required to execute a raid, although these things take time. Any number of bureaucrats are involved, the action is exceedingly rare these days, and that in itself requires genuflection to the right parties.”

“How long? ”

“Ten days, perhaps a little more.”

Fitz nodded. “Get started.”

Hutchinson had not won his preeminent position as a barrister by overlooking details. He asked one last time, “Is there a possibility the lady’s interests could be, shall we say, reconciled? ”

“I doubt it.”
Good God, I’ll have to bring Hutchinson a less dismal engraving. That one could put you off your feed.
That he’d not noticed the somber print before was testament to his present mood. “On second thought,” Fitz murmured, a brooding note in his voice, “let me think about this for a short while. Not that you can’t begin the due diligence,” he added crisply.

“I understand. With the operational snail’s pace of the bureaucracies, it can’t hurt to at least begin some initial conversations.”

Fitz was relieved to hear Hutchinson speak of a snail’s pace, when timing shouldn’t have mattered one way or the other. When it wouldn’t have in the past. When, in fact, he would have simply given Hutchinson the order to proceed without further thought. “I’ll decide soon,” Fitz said. “I’ll be out of town for a day or so.”

“Very well. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

“I’d prefer that your contacts not mention any names until absolutely necessary. Is that possible? ”

“It can be arranged.”
Interesting
, thought Hutchinson.
Groveland doesn’t want the lady exposed to scandal. At least for the moment.
“I’ll tell my sources we’d like the names on the writs to remain anonymous until the papers are served.”

Fitz smiled tightly. “Thank you.” He exhaled. “That should do it then.”

“Yes, indeed.”

Fitz came to his feet. “Thank your men for their quick results.”

“I will. A pleasant journey, Your Grace.”

Fitz looked at him blankly.

“On your travels out of town, Your Grace.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you.” Fitz smiled politely. “I’ll stop by on my return.”

“I’ll have updates for you by then.”

“Excellent.” Fitz turned to go and then swung back because he wasn’t finished with Mrs. St. Vincent just yet. Business was business; sex was sex. “I have another commission. Could you find a female doctor—someone exceptionally well-qualified—and have her pay a visit to Mrs. St. Vincent? Today preferably. Don’t look at me like that. It’s all quite innocent. Just make sure she’s good.”