Gorgeous as Sin (22 page)

She didn’t know it was as new to him as it was to her.

Nor did he understand she felt the same as he.

For a woman who wrote erotica, he expected a certain libidinous propensity.

While everyone knew, she thought, that Groveland reveled in prodigal sensation.

But rather than discuss nuances of feeling that bordered on fondness and affection, they chose to verify those sensations in more pleasant ways. With a kind of sumptuousness and self-indulgence, with happiness, with gratitude in the end.

Chapter 23

THAT SAME AFTERNOON, in the village of Riverston, in a remote corner of Yorkshire, a barrister from London was seated in the cluttered and noisy morning room of Rosalind’s parent’s. Birds of every size and color chirped and sang from cages, their living presence in contrast to the other miscellany of dead objects from nature in the form of skulls, insects, animal skeletons, and dried flora laying topsy-turvy on shelves and tabletops.

Amidst this repository of nature, Lady Pitt-Riverston and Mr. Symon were having tea and chatting as they awaited the arrival of the Honorable Algernon Pitt-Riverston who had been sent for to lend his expertise to the occasion. Rosalind’s mother was by nature warmhearted and agreeable, and soon Mr. Symon was discussing his wife and children as if he and Lady Pitt-Riverston were long lost friends.

“Perhaps you’d like to bring your little ones a bird or two from our menagerie,” she cheerfully offered. “Little Benjy and Marcella are the most adorable warblers. They understand perfectly when you talk to them,” she added with a smile. “And they know their numbers.”

“Thank you for offering,” Symon politely replied, wary of birds that knew their numbers or people who said they did—however kind Lady Pitt-Riverston. “But the city is no place for birds. The fog, you know,” he said with a grimace. “It’s quite insalubrious.”

“Indeed,” Lady Pitt-Riverston agreed with a little
tsk, tsk
. “We are fortunate to live in the country. Would your children like that little collection of beetles? ” She indicated a glass-topped box with rows of colorful beetles pinned to a green velvet ground. “Howard is forever bringing more of them home.”

“It’s lovely of you to ask, but with the long train ride, I’m afraid they may be damaged in transit.”

“More tea, then, Mr. Symon? Another cake perhaps? You could use a little weight on your bones.”

“Tea, please. It’s excellent.”

“A China green, Mr. Symon. Howard’s favorite. There now,” she said, pouring tea into his cup. “And I’m just going to put another small piece of cake on your plate,” she firmly added.

He didn’t argue. Having avoided birds and beetles, he could deal with an extra piece of cake. For the next few minutes, it wasn’t necessary to do more than nod his head and drink his tea for Lady Pitt-Riverston was explaining at some length how to teach birds their numbers.

Rosalind’s father was attending to some experiment and was only fetched once Algernon arrived. He appeared in a workman’s smock and slippers, still scribbling in a notebook as he entered the room.

“You must set that aside now, my dear,” his wife admonished. “Mr. Symon has important matters to discuss with us.”

It took the baron a fraction of a second to respond, but after adding a few more notations, he set the notebook and pencil aside, smiled at those gathered around the tea table, and sat down to join them. “I’m told this has something to do with Rosalind,” he said, fixing Symon with his clear blue gaze.

“Mr. Symon represents a client in London, Howard.”

“You’ve come a long way,” Lord Pitt-Riverston noted, “when Rosalind could be spoken to directly.”

“There is a slight problem, my lord,” Symon tactfully replied.

“With your client and my daughter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And who might your client be?” The baron had the direct, assessing gaze of a scientist.

“The Duke of Groveland, my lord.” Symon went on to explain the situation with the Duke of Groveland’s urban development. Their daughter’s bookstore was within the tract the duke wished to acquire, and she was the last property owner who had not yet agreed to sell to the duke. He then cited the sum Fitz had offered. “So you see, the duke is very generous. I’ve come to speak with you today in hopes you might be able to persuade your daughter”—he nodded at Algernon—“and sister to agree to the duke’s terms.”

“She’s refused him? ” Algernon sharply queried.

“Many times, I’m afraid.” Mr. Symon offered the party a pained smile. “The sum she’d realize from the sale would be more than enough to buy another shop in a different location, as well as leave her with a considerable profit.”

“My goodness, twenty thousand!” Lady Pitt-Riverston murmured. She was in charge of household expenses; her husband took no notice of money or more pertinently in their case, the lack of it.

“It’s a bloody fortune,” Algernon said bluntly. “She’s a fool if she doesn’t take it.”

“Perhaps you could apprise her of your sentiments,” Symon diplomatically noted.

“Now, now,” the baron interposed. “Rosalind must have her reasons for refusing. She’s an intelligent woman. Perhaps there are extenuating circumstances. I’m not sure we should interfere.” He and his daughter shared common crusading convictions; he respected the choices she’d made. “Although, I certainly understand it’s a large sum, my dear,” he said, turning to his wife, not unaware of the sacrifices she made to keep their household solvent. “Perhaps we should at least wait to hear from Rosalind.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Algernon responded. “She obviously doesn’t understand the benefits of twenty thousand pounds. It would change her life.”

“I think she’s quite content,” the baron said, understanding his daughter’s feelings since fulfillment for him was a simple matter of puttering around his laboratory.

“Your father might be right, dear,” Lady Pitt-Riverston said, with a smile for her son. “How can it hurt to wait a bit? ”

Understanding his only ally was Algernon, otherwise his business was done, Mr. Symon proposed to have a private conversation with Mrs. St. Vincent’s brother. “Thank you kindly for listening to my proposal,” the barrister said with a pleasant smile before turning to Algernon. “If you’d care to share a pint with me before my train leaves, Mr. Pitt-Riverston,” he said, “I’d be interested in hearing about the local grouse hunting.” Rising to his feet, he picked up his hat and bowed to Lady Pitt-Riverston. “Thank you again, ma’am.”

“I’d be more than happy to help you,” Algernon returned, coming to his feet as well. “Thank you for tea, Mother. Father.” He dipped his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mr. Symon would have been willing to wait for the morning train if it meant returning with the commitment Hutchinson wanted. Now to see if the brother had a price or more aptly, the exact amount of that price.

A short time later, he and Algernon were seated at a table in the local village pub. Once their cognacs were served, Symon lifted his glass. “Thank you for keeping me company. Cheers.”

Algernon dipped his head, raised his glass, and the men drank down their cognacs.

Pleased to see that his companion was a tippler, Symon signaled for more drinks. “As you may have surmised,” he said as they waited for their drinks, “I wanted to discuss something other than grouse hunting.”

Algernon smiled faintly. “By all means, please do. I don’t hunt in any case so I wouldn’t have been of much help in that regard.”

“I was hoping you could help me in another way, Mr. Pitt-Riverston. And if you were so inclined, I’m sure the Duke of Groveland would be
most
grateful.”

“How grateful? ” Algernon had not inherited the philanthropic genes in the family.

“I’m sure you could name your price,” the barrister smoothly replied, pleased to find a family member who understood how business was conducted. “Just between us, sir, may I say your sister seems to put no value at all on money. Twenty thousand is an enormous sum.” Symon had been one of the many agents sent to make offers to Rosalind.

Algernon snorted. “She’s blind to the ways of the world—she sees herself as some ministering angel to the poor,” he added with a sneer. “Neither she nor her dilettante of a husband had any appreciation for the solid principles that have made Britain the envy of the world. Industry and professional men drive the engine of commerce. Not poets,” he spat, “or free libraries for the poor.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Symon would have agreed with the devil to get the job done.

“So how might I help you? ”

“How much influence do you have with your sister? ”

“To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure. But rest assured, I shall exert what pressure I have to make her understand the merits of accepting such a generous offer.”

“I’m sure the duke would be willing to offer you a down payment for your immediate assistance, and should you persuade your sister to sell, you need but name your reward.”

“Three hundred now.” Crisp and clipped.

“Very well.” A tidy sum Symon thought; the brother was greedy. But he took out his wallet and counted out the bills.

“I’ll send her a telegram immediately, then follow up with a letter. If she still remains adamant, I’ll travel down to London and deal with her face-to-face. I’ll make it clear to her that our parents could use financial help and with twenty thousand she could do so. There is filial duty after all; she is not ignorant of the principle. And so I will remind her.”

Their drinks came and Symon lifted his. “To a profitable association.”

“To our common goal,” Algernon added, holding his glass aloft.

The men drank, both pleased with the arrangement.

Algernon was richer by three hundred pounds, equal to a modest annual income for the lesser gentry, and the future held the possibility of real wealth.

The men parted with assurances and smiles, their bargain made.

Symon could report that he’d been partially successful in his assignment. Furthermore, he didn’t miss the evening train to London.

Chapter 24

FITZ LEFT ROSALIND’S apartment early the next morning. Throughout the day, Rosalind half hoped he’d stop by again, even though she realized the folly in harboring such expectations from a man who viewed women as amusements. At times, relatively tender amusements as he’d indicated last night, but she knew better than to anticipate any permanent interest. Her life had been too challenging to put much store in silver-lining fantasies. And despite Mrs. Beecham’s comment about dukes marrying beneath them, she was not about to take complete leave of her senses in that regard.

While Rosalind was reminding herself not to lose sight of reason when it came to Fitz’s charming ways—sexual and otherwise—Fitz was doing his very best not to think of Rosalind
at all
. He refused to yield to what he considered uncontrollable urges today. It was a matter of principle.

He actually escorted his mother to a luncheon that day, followed by a short musical recital. Not short enough in his estimation, but then with plenty of brandy he managed to survive the performance without losing his good humor.

In fact, on the carriage ride back to Groveland House, Julia said, “You seem in fine fettle today, darling. Even playing cavalier to me without so much as a grumble.” She looked at him with a twinkle in her eye. “To what do I owe this pleasure? ”

He was lounging back on the seat opposite her, the carriage top down on the warm afternoon, his gaze half-lidded against the sun. “I haven’t seen much of you since you arrived. I thought I’d do my filial duty.”

“Why today? ”

He laughed. “Don’t look at me with such suspicion. You’d think I never accompany you anywhere.”

“You don’t.”

“I do when you ask me.” He lifted his brows. “The Turner exhibit, for instance.”

“You left me there. Along with Miss Nesbit.”

“If you’re going to quibble with me,” he drawled, amusement in his gaze, “I won’t ask you where we’re going next.”

She looked at him as she had when he was young and trying to keep something from her. “Are you sick, darling? You can tell me.”

He rolled his eyes. “No, I’m not sick, Mother. I’m in excellent health.”

“You were out all night.”

“I’m out most nights.”

“That’s true,” she agreed, experiencing some relief. “I thank you then for your company, although you have to admit, darling, you don’t often escort me to luncheon.”

“I was just in the mood today.”

“If you say so.” She wasn’t convinced.

“I do.” Then he took out a flask from his coat pocket, uncorked it, and drank a long draught.

It must be that woman
, Julia thought with a mother’s instinct. “I was planning on going to Charlotte’s tea next if you’re looking for something to do.”

He groaned. “Good God, Mother, why do you bother with that self-righteous prude? ”

“If you must know, Kemal will be there. Charlotte’s husband is in the Ministry of Trade, and he and Kemal are discussing something or other,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“If Kemal’s there, you won’t need me.” Being dutiful had its limits and Charlotte Dalton was his. He couldn’t stomach the woman; she thought she could entice him as a suitor by slyly calling attention to her daughter’s virginity.

His mother smiled, well aware of Charlotte’s crude presumption. “You could just tell Charlotte you can’t abide virgins.”

“I believe I have in every possible way short of gross discourtesy, Mother. She is completely obtuse and oblivious to the fact that virgins went the way of sailing ships.”

“I believe there are still a few.”

He offered her a jaundiced look. “If they’re very plain.” At which point a picture of the splendid Mrs. St. Vincent sprang into his mind in not so subtle contrast. “I’ll get off at Brooks’s,” he abruptly said and swivelling around gave instructions to the driver. “You don’t need me with Kemal for company, do you? ”

“No, of course not.” Julia scrutinized her son, taking note of his sudden discomfort. “If you need anything or if you wish for entertainment tonight, Kemal and I are dining with Derby.”

Fitz looked up, his flask halfway to his mouth. “Thank you, but I’ll find some entertainment of my own.” Raising the flask to his mouth, he drained it.

“Do you have plans to go to Green Grove anytime soon?” Fitz normally went grouse hunting in August or rusticated in the country.

“I’m not sure. What about you? ”

“We might drive out next week,” Julia said.

“I’ll come along if I can,” he lied. It wasn’t that he disliked Kemal; he just preferred not seeing Kemal play husband to his mother when the man already had four wives. A son’s protective impulse perhaps, but there it was.

Despite drinking and gambling at Brooks’s in the course of the following hours, however, his memories of Mrs. St. Vincent persisted. In fact, the more he drank, the more vivid they became. Not a particular surprise. He’d decided to play cicisbeo to his mother in order
not
to spend the day drinking, knowing what it would do to his self-control. He was like a dog with the neighborhood bitch in heat, he thought—driven willy nilly to fuck her. And liquor only made the craving worse.

He didn’t stay more than a few hours at Brooks’s. He left for Madame Rivera’s determined to exhaust himself. If he fucked someone else until he couldn’t fuck anymore, he hoped to annihilate his lustful need for the enticing Rosalind.

A petite, pretty blonde was riding Fitz some time later and silently offering up thanks for her good fortune. All the ladies vied for his attention when he called, knowing darling Fitz always gave pleasure in rich full measure. “I’m so glad you’re staying,” she purred, slowly sliding back down his cock.

After hours of drinking, he was fighting to stave off the compulsion that had brought him here. “I can’t think of a better place to spend the night,” he murmured.

“Lucky me . . .” He was the only man she knew who could last til morning.

 

 

WHILE FITZ WAS doing his prurient best to forget Rosalind, she was locking up the bookstore before setting off for her appointment with Dr. Swindell. In the course of the day, she’d reconciled herself to the practicalities of serving as the Duke of Groveland’s idle entertainment. All the pros, cons, and harsh realities had been neatly compartmentalized and locked away.

If she saw him again, fine. If she didn’t, she understood the rules apropos casual liaisons. They were by definition
casual
.

She took a few moments to stop by Mr. Edding’s. With the interruptions of late, she wished to let him know she was behind schedule. Not that she would divulge the reasons why—that Fitz had been consuming all her leisure time. But Mr. Edding deserved some warning so he could adjust his publication schedule.

As she walked into his shop, she immediately noticed his apprehension. Thinking perhaps she was jumping to conclusions, she smiled. “Good evening, sir. I came to beg your indulgence. My next manuscript will be delayed I’m afraid.”

“You mustn’t be seen here,” he whispered, although they were quite alone. “I didn’t dare send you a message in the event someone was watching, but you must go. Immediately.”

The panic in his voice was disturbing. “Watching? ” she whispered back.

“I believe I’m under surveillance.” He glanced outside with a furtive look. “Someone learned of my publishing activities. The authorities may swoop down on me at any moment. You must go and
don’t under any circumstances
come back until you hear from me. Now go!”

No further explanation was required. She knew full well that the obscenity laws viewed Mr. Edding’s publishing ventures as criminal.

“Here,” he hissed, shoving a packet of stationery at her. “Pretend to take money out of your purse, so it looks as though you came in to purchase some stationery.”

She could feel herself beginning to sweat and understood why Edward had never told her of his writing. He was protecting her. Miming a money transaction, she took the package from Mr. Edding and whispered, “I hope you’re wrong about this.”

She was careful not to look about as she exited the shop, not wishing to appear suspicious. But she found herself glancing in shop windows as she moved through the city, trying to see if someone was trailing her. If she was being followed, however, her pursuers were discreet. She could detect no one giving chase. And by the time she reached Dr. Swindell’s, she’d had time to calm the worst of her fears.

Surely no one could implicate her in Mr. Edding’s activities. Her name was never on anything she wrote, she was paid in cash, she only rarely entered his shop. Furthermore, if Edward had escaped the law for the length of time required to write fourteen books, surely she was safe, having written only a few serials.

She was surprised to find the doctor’s townhouse was not only posh, but in a fashionable neighborhood. But then nothing but the best for Fitz and his minions, she reminded herself. However, she was genuinely shocked at the degree of elegance she saw after being ushered inside by a courteous servant. The entrance hall was decorated with artifacts from Pompeii, including replicas of furniture and Roman wall paintings. The carpet was silk and obviously from Persia if her expertise garnered from books was credible. She had no firsthand knowledge since her family could never afford anything so fine.

The servant who welcomed her escorted her down the hall to the back of the house, waved her into a small examining room, and quietly shut the door behind her.

Two large windows overlooked a manicured garden teeming with late summer roses. A riot of color struck the eye, blossoms tumbling over the garden walls, climbing up trellises, flourishing in neat beds bordered by boxwood hedges. She thought of her own pitiful garden behind her store, where sunlight was limited to a few hours a day and her efforts at growing roses had largely met with failure.

She softly sighed.

Oh, for a gardener of one’s own.

And the funds to buy hundreds of roses.

And the wherewithal to take down the buildings on either side of her garden that blocked the sun.

Her reflections gave way as the door opened.

“Good evening, my dear,” Dr. Swindell said as she entered the room. “Are you feeling any better? ”

“Yes, thank you. The salve was an excellent restorative.”
In more ways than one
, she thought, remembering how easily and painlessly Fitz’s erection had slid in and out. “You have a most lush garden,” she added.

“The roses are
my
restorative. Gardening is my means of relaxation, although I have help as well.” She waved to a screen in the corner. “If you like, you can change into a gown. I’ll come back in a few minutes.”

Rosalind was tempted to say, “I feel fine, don’t bother,” but understood it might be useful to see that all was well, Fitz’s avowals of good health notwithstanding. Still, this was a novel experience for her and she couldn’t say she was looking forward to being peered at and probed.

But once she was undressed and the doctor returned, the examination went relatively smoothly. Dr. Swindell put her at ease by chatting of impersonal matters during the exam and by so doing, diverting her attention from the procedure.

“There now,” Dr. Swindell said when she was finished, offering her hand to help Rosalind sit up. “Everything looks fine, barring a return of that small inflammation you mentioned. I would caution you to a modicum of prudence in terms of overindulgence—if you wish, of course,” she added as Rosalind blushed. “I’m not suggesting it’s necessary. You’d know best how you feel. But should you need it, I’ll send along some more salve.”

“Thank you, that would be useful.”

“If you have any questions of any kind, please, ask away. I’m not in the least judgmental.”

“Well . . . that is . . .” Rosalind hesitated, not in the habit of discussing such things. “Need I . . . worry about... some dangerous disease? ” she finally stammered.

“There’s always the risk,” the doctor replied, Rosalind’s reluctant query common in her practice. “I don’t like to promise my patients absolution from such possibilities. Naturally, it depends on one’s partner—on their fidelity.”

“I understand.” Her heart sank. As if
fidelity
was even in Fitz’s vocabulary.

“You could use a condom of course—as an added measure of safety. I could give you some if you like and save you the necessity of going to a chemist.”

She was politely saying,
You wouldn’t have to expose your sexual activity to the world.
“Thank you—a few would be useful,” Rosalind murmured.

“A wise choice, my dear. Forethought is excellent insurance against disease. While you dress, I’ll make up a small package for you.”

As Rosalind dressed, she contemplated how significantly her world had changed in a few short days. Here she was, dressing after a doctor’s examination she might never have contemplated before. Not only that, she was bringing home condoms and salve so she might engage in sexual activities with a man she barely knew.

If he even elected to return.

Not a material certainty, Fitz’s departure that morning polite but devoid of any promise of future assignations.

On her journey home, that uncertainty looped through her mind, dogging her despite her best efforts to consider more pleasant prospects. But she wanted to see Fitz again—whether it meant ultimate heartache or not. Whether it was sensible or not. Although, clearly
she
wasn’t when she coveted a man like Fitz; surely their encounters were akin to that poetic line about ships passing in the night.

She would be wise to keep in mind the fleeting nature of his liaisons. It would be insane to contemplate actually caring for a man of his ilk. She grimaced. Particularly after so few days.
Good God, I am a fool.

By the time she’d traveled the considerable distance from the doctor’s and was nearing home, she’d beaten down most of her rash inclinations and was commending herself on her good sense. She’d reconciled herself to simply enjoying Fitz’s company if and when he appeared. Just that—enjoy—and nothing more.
Carpe diem
would be her motto.