Gorgeous as Sin (2 page)

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.

Immediately 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.

Her unconscious sigh shattered the silence, jerking her back to reality and her fast-approaching deadline.

She glanced at the clock. Two fifteen.

She put pen to paper, the nib fairly flying over the page. She didn’t have time for maudlin introspection or reflection on what might have been. She had to finish ten pages by eight in the morning. And that was that.

She was paid by the page.

It was piecework, pure and simple—like a seamstress who was compensated for the number of garments she completed in a day.

Rosalind smiled.

This was easier.

She’d never learned to sew despite her mother’s best efforts to make her a genteel young lady who could embroider her husband’s slippers or sew a fine seam. Fortunately her father had taken her side and she’d studied his favorite subjects instead: botany, anthropology, history, Latin, and Greek.

Even more fortunately, she’d quite by accident forged a new market for her steamy novels. Her publisher was ecstatic—his delight measured in increased fortune for her and less agreeably in persistent demands that she write faster.

Her stories ran counter to the accepted male narrative of domination bolstered by various fantastic devices with which to restrain female characters. Not that she was averse to an occasional bondage scene. After all, their bookstore had always sold books by Anonymous that were kept behind a screen in a back room. The risqué books and magazines bound in innocuous bindings had generated excellent sales.

But when she’d first undertaken the task of continuing Edward’s secret work, she’d instinctively penned tales appealing to her feminine sensibilities. Almost instantly, word of mouth had translated into a tidal wave of eager customers. Women readers, a major component of the bookstore’s customer base as well, had quickly heard of her writing—not that they knew it was
hers
—and had taken to indulging themselves in sexual fantasies tailored to female imaginations and passions.

Not that her male customers were averse to purchasing the weekly magazines that published her books in serial chapters. Mr. Edding’s
Facts and Fantasy
was a typical example of the cheap serial fiction that boomed after the abolition of the Newspaper Stamp Tax in 1855. But what increased the volume of her readership so remarkably was the additional female audience.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have been so surprising. It was, after all, an era of sweeping social changes, many of them specifically directed toward women’s rights. There was increasing ferment for women’s suffrage, and reforms in marriage, divorce, and inheritance laws had over the past fifty years broadened the scope of female self-determination. Women could now sue for divorce, gain custody of their children, retain control over their own property—not easily, but it could be done. Women were, on the whole, leading much more complex and productive lives.

Female artists were coming to prominence as well in exhibitions previously closed to them. Sexual issues, unrelated to chauvinist bias, were being researched for the first time, and the studies were being published in the burgeoning field of psychology both in England and on the Continent. Radicals, socialists, and feminists had come together in the Men and Women’s Club to debate, dispute, converse, and expound upon the sexual issues of the day even while the vast public barely noticed. The government’s policies directed at mass education had given rise to unprecedented numbers of readers hungry for knowledge and entertainment. And with the advent of the typewriter, more and more women were entering the workforce, domestic service no longer the sole occupation open to females of lesser rank. Also, universities had begun enrolling women, albeit in limited numbers, and those pioneering females were unprecedentedly taking firsts at Oxford and Cambridge.

In some small measure, her stories ran parallel to contemporary women’s pursuit of liberty and freedom in all areas of life. Not that women were free from their corseted, high-collared, straitlaced world of patriarchy, puritanism, and prejudice, but critical change was in the air.

And with it, a crisis of masculinity had begun.

Enough, enough!
She had no time for musing.

Her piecework had to be finished.

She smiled. If her stories continued to sell well, someday she might actually
visit
Constantinople.

She wiggled her toes in her slippers, shoved a heavy fall of auburn hair from her forehead, and bent to her task.

Should Lady Blessington sigh or scream in orgasmic ecstasy?

The erstwhile eunuch was very well endowed—
very
well, indeed.

She rather thought Lady Blessington might scream, she decided, her pen once again racing over the page.

Rosalind didn’t look up again until the last page was complete, the newest chapter conveniently coming to an orgasmic conclusion. Then she checked the time, smiled, and stretched leisurely.

Six. She had a sufficient interval in which to bathe, dress, and breakfast before carrying her manuscript to Bond Street and turning it over to Mr. Edding. His stationery shop was
tres
fashionable; only the best clientele ordered their monogrammed writing materials from him. And he looked so very unlike a publisher of bawdy literature that her anxiety about having her secret occupation exposed was minimal.

 

 

MR. EDDING LITERALLY rubbed his hands in delight when she walked through the doorway of his shop at eight. “What a pleasure to see you, Mrs. St. Vincent!” he exclaimed. “We are
most
anxious for your new chapter. You’ll be pleased to hear that the circulation has increased to six thousand copies! I hope you may find the time to increase your production. Perhaps add another serial for our little periodical.” He put up his hand. “I know, I know, your business requires attention as well. But, my dear lady, if you would be amenable to an increase in your wages—say double the amount—you could hire someone to oversee your shop and satisfy your readers in the process.”

“Why don’t I see what I can do, Mr. Edding.” Rosalind refrained from showing her excitement as she handed him her manuscript.
Double! Good Lord!
Perhaps she might be free of debt soon if she could write faster. Not only did the bookstore require constant funds to maintain its inventory, but her free library and Saturday reading group that offered tea and sandwiches for those less fortunate were also substantial expenses.

In addition, there remained a balance due on Edward’s funeral. It had cost dearly, but she’d wanted her husband buried in a fashionable cemetery with an elegant, tasteful headstone to mark his grave, and such tangibles had come at no small price. “Your generous offer is welcome, of course,” she blandly murmured as if she were generally indifferent to finances when, in fact, she was dancing with delight in her imagination.

“Good. Might I have another chapter of
Lady Blessington’s Harem Adventure
in a week and perhaps the first chapter of a second series as well?”

She repressed a gasp, and her voice indicated only the veriest agitation when she spoke. “I would need more time I think, Mr. Edding.”

“Very well. But think about hiring a shopgirl.” The clandestine publisher smiled. “You have a rare talent, my lady. Quite, quite rare. I’d like very much to see you devote more time to your writing.” Sliding the package under the counter, he opened the cash register, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to her. “Cash as you prefer, my lady. And may I say how much I appreciate the quality of your work.” Glancing over her shoulder, he waved his hand as though shooing someone away.

Rosalind stiffened but kept her back to the door. She deliberately came to Mr. Edding’s shop before it opened in order to avoid being seen.

“It was some passerby, my dear, who apparently can’t read the hours painted on the door. He’s gone. You’re quite safe.” He understood her fear of exposure; if it were revealed that she was a writer of erotica, her reputation not to mention her livelihood would be at risk. The scandal could ruin her.

A moment later, Rosalind bid good-by to Mr. Edding, left the shop, and walked home through the quiet streets. Only after she entered her apartment above the store did she allow herself to give in to fatigue. Not that she was unfamiliar with weariness after so many nights with little sleep.

Fortunately today was Tuesday—normally not a busy day, particularly in August with the beau monde having deserted London. Even the bourgeois were at the seashore with their families. She didn’t expect many customers.

She would rest for a brief time; the store didn’t open until ten.

Then fortified by another cup of tea—several actually—she would survive another day with limited sleep. But tonight, she would allow herself a rare treat and go to bed by midnight.

Chapter 3

GROVELAND ARRIVED AT Bruton Street Books shortly before ten.

An early riser, he’d already spent some hours with his new secretary, Stanley. All his correspondence, which had been left in abeyance during his absence, was now in order, and young Stanley was much relieved. The duke’s casual disregard for his mail was unfathomable to the meticulous lad, but then Stanley was still young and idealistic—neither of which characterized the duke. The duke was thirty-five. And
his
youth had been marked by tumult and violence when his father was in his cups—not an atmosphere likely to foster idealism.

Fitz had explained—again—that Stanley could do what he liked with the billets-doux; they were of no interest to him. As for his business correspondence, if Stanley had questions and couldn’t reach him, he could speak to Hutchinson. The remaining mail could be dealt with in whatever manner Stanley chose. He’d tried to be diplomatic for the young man was doing his best to shoulder his new responsibilities. “The point is,” he’d finally said, “I don’t want to deal with most of this. You understand?”

Now in terms of further diplomacy . . .

Fitz surveyed the bookshop’s bow windows filled with colorful volumes, then the glass-paned, canary yellow door with the hours clearly noted thereon. He slipped his watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. Ten. He tried the door once again. Apparently, Mrs. St. Vincent wasn’t the punctual type.

Ah, there, a woman was coming toward him from the back of the store.

Mrs. St. Vincent it appeared from Hutchinson’s brief description—her hair color and height identifying factors. But as Fitz’s connoisseur gaze swiftly took her measure, he wondered if Hutchinson could have been wrong about her background. This woman had the look of an actress: startlingly beautiful, tall, and shapely, her heavy auburn hair piled casually atop her head ŕ la Pre-Raphaelite portraits. Or maybe it was that particular shade of hair that called to mind their work.

Although she also affected the aesthetic mode in her attire: elements of Japanese motifs embroidered on her blouse, the fabric of her moss green linen skirt handwoven from all appearances, her splendid form visibly without corsets. Having spent enough time in artists’ studios buying artwork or in pursuit of some lovely model, he recognized the avant-garde style.

Women in his world preferred French couture, opulent silks and satins, velvets and lace rather than hand-loomed wools and linens, and corsets were as de rigueur as a hand-span waist. And no lady he knew would appear in public with her hair as casually arranged as Mrs. St. Vincent’s.

She wasn’t working class, but she had definitely moved beyond the conventional world of her birth. For instance, she wasn’t wearing mourning, although her husband could have been dead for some time; he’d have to ask Hutchinson. Certainly in style and dress she appeared very much the modern woman. Not that he paid much attention to the controversial battle for women’s rights. In the insulated world in which he moved, the subject was, if not anathema, generally ignored. The ladies of his acquaintance were more concerned with gossip, the most stylish gown, or their newest lover.

Speaking of lovers, Mrs. St. Vincent definitely piqued his interest.

She was quite lovely.

Rosalind, meanwhile, in the process of mulling over a possible speaker for her Saturday reading group, didn’t notice the duke until she reached the door and looked up to unlock it. Her eyes flared wide and her first thought was:
My Lord, Groveland is tall!
Her second thought, thoroughly uncalled for and quickly suppressed was:
He is as handsome as sin—gloriously so... like a Leighton depiction of some Greek god or Roman gladiator—all overwhelming strength and chiseled beauty.

He was a favorite of the scandal sheet gossip mongers. And whether at the races, some hunt, or a fancy dress ball, a woman was always clinging to his arm.

Not that his looks or his scandalous life should concern her in the least, Rosalind sternly reminded herself; she was well aware of why he’d come.

Groveland was here because he wished to acquire her store—and with it, her livelihood and all that was positive in her life. Not that he wasn’t offering her generous compensation. But she didn’t wish to sell for any number of reasons. Of prime importance, perhaps, was the fact that she’d fashioned a busy, satisfying, and increasingly lucrative life for herself since Edward’s death.

And she saw no cause or reason to relinquish it.

Yes, yes, she understood it might be possible to reconstruct such an existence elsewhere. But why must she disrupt her life and business simply because Groveland was wealthy, titled, and insistent?

She
liked
that her free library was frequented by so many of the laboring poor; she took great pleasure in knowing that her Saturday reading group was filled to overflowing because she offered speakers and books addressing the pertinent issues of the day. And while her small art gallery in the back of her store had originated by chance, the women artists who exhibited there were drawing increasing critical acclaim.

Furthermore, soon she would be free of debt
without
the duke’s offer.

But perhaps what may have ultimately sealed her decision was her fundamental dislike of men like Groveland—idle, leisured aristocrats who lived only for their amusements. Noble lords who had never wanted for anything, who expected immediate compliance, who resented challenge or contradiction. Who lived off the income generated by ill-paid retainers.

Whether it was Groveland’s rapping on the window pane or the shock of her latent radicalism jarring her back to reality, she quickly slipped the latch free and opened the door.

“A pleasant good morning.” The duke bowed faintly. “Mrs. St. Vincent, I presume. I’m Groveland.”

“Good morning, Your Grace. Are you in the market for some reading material?” Rosalind sardonically inquired. That he looked every inch the exquisite noble from the top of his deliberately ruffled hair to his biscuit-colored summer shoes inexplicably annoyed her.

She
is
a bitch
, he thought. But adept at humoring women, at the top of his game according to Brooks’s betting books, Fitz offered a practiced smile. “Actually, I came to speak with you about your bookstore,” he said, smooth as silk. “I was hoping you would allow me a few moments of your time.”

She found his suave charm and easy smile insufferable, his expectation that she would succumb to it even more irksome. After a deliberately long pause, she said, “I suppose I could give you a few minutes. Come in and say what you have to say.” She waved him in with a flick of her hand. “Not that it will do you any more good than the ten others who came here to do your bidding.”

He flexed his fingers against an urge to throttle her, her tone, her stance, the chill in her emerald eyes, like a gauntlet thrown.

Hutchinson was right. She was audacious.

His mind racing with options other than that of throttling her, he moved past her into the store. Was it possible his architect could redraw the plans and work around her damned corner property? Could Williams design a new entrance to Monckton Row and the luxury townhomes planned for the site. Could he tell this shrewish bitch to go to hell?

The sound of the door closing behind him brought him back to his senses. Marginally. He understood that responding to her insolence in kind would hardly serve his mission, that tact and diplomacy would more likely win the day. But Groveland rarely met a quarrelsome woman; in fact, he never did, the women in his life universally disposed to please him. So he reined in his temper with effort. “We can trade insults if you wish.” He smiled tightly. “I’m more than willing and better at it than you I expect. Or you can do me the courtesy of listening to my proposal. I promise to be brief.”

Rosalind blew out a small breath; he was asking for little. She could at least hear him out. “I apologize. I was unnecessarily rude. I didn’t sleep much last night.” She smiled faintly. “At least I have an excuse for my incivility.”

Fitz couldn’t help but smile in return, although he hadn’t intended to. No more than he’d intended to say in a lazy drawl, “For all you know, I may not have slept much last night either.”

“But then no one would expect a man of your proclivities to have spent your night sleeping, would they?”

The little vixen was a flirt. “What could you possibly know of my proclivities?” he murmured, back on familiar ground, seduction his particular metier.

“The whole world knows, Your Grace. You’re infamous.”

“Should I apologize?” His voice was low and velvet soft, his gaze explicitly carnal.

It was unconscionable that a tremor of desire should immediately spike through her senses. That his deep, husky voice and heated gaze should prompt her cheeks to flush rosy pink. That for the briefest moment she’d fall prey to his tantalizing allure.

But she was a woman of resolve, even more so since her widowhood, so she resisted the heady temptation. “No need to apologize, Groveland.” She offered him a bland look and a blander smile. “May I offer you tea?” Clearly, a moment of respite was in order. She understood now why he was the byword for amorous play. He was quite impossible to resist—a wholly inexplicable phenomena to date in her life, but shockingly real.

She really could use a cup of tea if for no other reason than to put some distance between herself and Groveland’s disconcerting sexuality.

“Yes, thank you,” he murmured with a polished bow. He could drink tea if he had to, although cognizant of Mrs. St. Vincent’s tantalizing response, he would have much preferred a taste of the lovely widow’s heated passions.

At his graceful bow, Rosalind immediately pictured him on a ballroom floor, bowing to some woman, poised and elegant in full evening rig.
Good God, I’ve been writing fiction too long.

“I heated the samovar earlier,” she quickly remarked, finding the sudden silence disturbing, feeling the need to fill the hush. “I keep tea at the ready for my customers and myself. I’m addicted I’m afraid, and customers like it as well . . . especially when the weather turns cooler—not that it’s cool today, of course,” she added, chiding herself for sounding like some dithering young miss just out of the schoolroom. “Please, over there,” she restively finished, gesturing to two chairs near the window.

After a cup of tea, she’d politely refuse his offer and send him on his way. She was no innocent maid whose head could be turned by a handsome face and a captivating smile.
Truly, seriously
, she silently admonished herself.

The lady’s contemptuous hauteur had vanished, Fitz reflected, following her, along with her abrasiveness, and in their place was this lovely, sweet tremulousness. His next thought was bluntly male and hackneyed:
What she needs is a good, hard orgasm to calm her nerves.

His third thought was perhaps even more of a cliche considering his reputation for licentious pleasures:
Might she be available for a bit of dalliance this morning?
He was fresh and rested after a good night’s sleep. Although he fully understood that his lustful desires had more to do with the lady’s fascinating sensuality than a bracing night of repose.

Taking a seat in a worn leather club chair while she busied herself pouring tea, he slid down into a comfortable slouch and observed her from under his lashes. He had only to pull out a few pins and her heavy, silken hair would tumble down her back. His fingers unconsciously flexed in pleasant anticipation. Her blouse buttoned down the front. Convenient. She wore a minimum of petticoats under her simple skirt, too. Really—it was as if fate was taking a hand, he thought, contemplating the ease with which he could disrobe her. He shifted slightly as his erection grew, the image of Mrs. St. Vincent nude vastly arousing.

He shot a glance toward the door, as if he might curtail impending customers by will alone.

“Sugar?”

It took him a second to reply, distracted as he was by his imagination racing full tilt. “Yes, please,” he said, crossing his legs to conceal his erection. “Four.”

Her brows rose in surprise, but she only said, “Milk?” rather than what she was thinking.

“Half milk, please, if it’s not too late.”

She glanced at him and smiled. “You don’t actually drink tea, do you?”

He smiled back. “I do on occasion.”

“When you’re trying to please some woman.”

He grinned. “Yes, mostly then.”

“I could find you some liquor, I suppose.” But even as she spoke, she realized how she’d compromised herself and quickly added, “Actually, I can’t.”

“Tea’s fine,” he murmured, as if he hadn’t noticed her brief moment of unintentional goodwill.

She tried not to be overly mindful of how he casually lounged in her chair as if he sat there often, nor how splendid he looked in his beige linen suit—powerful, virile male outfitted in gentlemen’s finery. And yet the brute animal remained beneath the veneer, London’s best tailors unable to trivialize the underlying brawn and muscle. In contrast—strangely perhaps, given his reputation for vice—he had the look of some troubadour of old as well with his dark, ruffled hair curling over his collar, his grey eyes revealing a hint of soulfulness, his sensual mouth eminently kissable.

She had to admit he was incredibly attractive.

She had forgotten what it felt like to be enticed.

But she knew better than to succumb to Groveland’s much-heralded seductive skills, and when she carried over two teacups and handed him his, she was careful not to meet his gaze.

Infamous he might be, but she was not, she noted in cautionary restraint, sitting down across from him and taking a sip of tea.

“When I first saw you, you reminded me of a Pre-Raphaelite portrait.” Fitz smiled over the rim of his teacup. “You hear that often, I expect.”