Gorgeous as Sin (3 page)

“I admit, I do. It’s my hair, I think.”

“And your eyes and nose. I own several of their paintings—Rossetti and Millais in particular. The similarities between you and their models are quite remarkable.”

“You own Rossetti and Millais?” She couldn’t quite keep the shock from her voice. She’d not expected him to be a patron of the arts—other than for paintings of nudes, perhaps. And nudes were not either artist’s speciality.

“You sound surprised.”

“Your reputation is for other things.”

“That’s because gossip is by definition about
other things
,” he noted with a faint smile. “Scandal attracts more interest than cultural endeavors.”

“And you’re engaged in cultural endeavors?”

He laughed. “I’m pleased to see you’re not carping by nature. I know women who could seriously outrival that arch look of yours.”

“From all reports you know women who can do most anything.”

“While you’re a country mouse, bereft of feminine artifice,” he sardonically countered.

“Feminine artifice
is
beyond my scope. As for the country mouse, once perhaps I was,” she returned with a rueful smile. “But life and untoward circumstances intervene and alter one’s character whether one likes it or not.”

“Your husband’s gambling, for instance.”

She frowned. “You overstep, Groveland.”

“My apologies. So you became a managing woman,” he noted with a lifted brow.

She knew what he meant; she also knew
a managing woman
was not a charitable term. “Maybe I did,” she said, though because she had neither the inclination nor the resources to take on the idle role of society belle. “By necessity in the beginning and now by choice.” She smiled. “I’m not of your world, Groveland, nor do I aspire to that life.”

“You endorse socialist principles?” He didn’t care, but he enjoyed watching her, and to that purpose, he asked questions.

“I endorse helping those less fortunate. Call it what you like.”

“We all help those less fortunate.”

“If by
we
you mean those of your class, I beg to differ with you. There are nobles who have run their tenants off their land without a qualm, and others who live off the labor of their crofters without offering them a living wage.” She lifted her brows. “Do you want me to go on? The disparities between rich and poor are comprehensive and deplorable.”

“My tenants are well cared for and well paid.”

“Good for you.”

Her gaze had turned heated and not in a way that would advance either his business or personal desires. “Tell me what books your customers favor most. I expect there are certain subjects that sell better than others.”

How incredibly urbane he was, shifting facilely from the contentious issue of the poor to an innocuous topic without so much as a flicker of a pause. Understanding that she wasn’t going to humanize the aristocratic class with a few pithy comments to Groveland, she replied with equal civility. “Travel books are most popular, I suppose.” She dared not tell him the truth: erotica sold best.

“If you allowed me to purchase your store, you could travel wherever you liked.”

“My bookstore is earning a good return. I may soon travel without your money.”

“Soon?”

Good Lord, he was quick-witted. “My profits are increasing nicely.”

“I, on the other hand, could make you financially independent immediately. Twenty thousand would give you considerable independence.”

Good God! Twenty thousand! That’s three times his barrister’s last offer! Clearly, he is serious!
She drew in a small sustaining breath, then set down her teacup, conscious that his cool gaze was scrutinizing her closely. “Your Grace, I don’t wish to lead you on,” she said, knowing she was perhaps being illogical, but allowing her heart to rule. “As I’ve already informed your many surrogates, I have no wish to sell. The bookstore is more than a profitable business; it’s my home and my passion—particularly with reference to my small charities. Helping others offers me enormous pleasure and a sense of fulfillment I’m not sure you’d understand. I’m sorry to be a hindrance to your plans, but I’m quite determined to stay here.”

“You only paid three thousand for the store,” Fitz pointed out, logical when she was not. “With twenty thousand, you could buy another store, do more charitable works, indulge your interest in travel. And in all candor,” he gently noted, setting down his teacup, “your property stands in the way of my project.”

A flush of anger instantly colored her cheeks. “Your project? What about mine?”

He frowned. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“I could say the same of you.”

“Do you realize you’re obstructing a major urban enterprise?”

“
Your
enterprise, you mean.”

“Of course that’s what I mean,” he irritably replied. “This little bookstore of yours could be anywhere; it doesn’t have to be on this particular corner.”

“I happen to
like
this particular corner.” Her voice had taken on the same contentious tone as his. “This is my
home
, Groveland. What if I asked you to sell Groveland House? Would you mind?”

“That’s different,” he brusquely retorted.

“Because it’s yours, you mean, and you’re rich as Croesus and you always get what you want!” Her voice had taken on a strident tone.

“I don’t,” he gruffly returned. “You’re quite wrong.”
If I always got whatever I wanted, I would have had a different father and a different childhood. A normal one.

“Then you won’t find it so unusual when you don’t get my store!”

“It’s incomprehensible that you’d cut off your nose to spite your face,” he coldly rebuked. “I’m offering you twenty thousand for a store that’s worth three.”

“We disagree on what it’s worth,” she answered as coldly.

“You want
more
?” he said very, very softly. The woman had the instincts of a highwayman.

“Everything
isn’t
about money, Groveland!” How dare he speak to her in that accusing tone. “In fact, the things that truly matter are
never
about money! Not that someone like you could possibly understand! Now, do me a favor! Get out and leave me alone! Permanently!”

He was surprised at the degree of anger her tirade generated. Every muscle in his body was taut with rage. “There’s nothing I can say to change your mind? ” Twenty thousand was a goddamned fortune and she knew it.

“Not a thing!” Hot, bellicose words.

He was utterly still save for a muscle that twitched over his stark cheekbone. “I could make your life exceedingly difficult,” he said, his voice soft with menace.

She sat back in shock. “Are you threatening me?”

Pushing himself upright in his chair, he leaned forward slightly, the devil glowing in his eyes. “I am.”

Her spine went rigid. “Do what you will,” she snapped, furious at his arrogance. “I’m
not
selling!”

He came to his feet in a powerful surge. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he growled, towering over her.

“On the contrary,” she rebuked, looking up at him, her gaze flame hot, “I know very well who I’m dealing with! A spoiled, self-indulgent debauchee who’s never worked a day in his life or cared about anyone but himself! But I am not intimidated by your wealth and power! I’m here and I’m staying!” As if empowered by her heated words, she rose to her feet in a flash and jabbed her finger into the fine silk jacquard of his waistcoat. “Now, get out!”

He grabbed her wrist in a viselike grip. “You unmitigated bitch.”

She gasped in pain.

His fingers tightened for a flashing moment, then he abruptly released her and bending down so their eyes were level, whispered, fierce and low, “They say your husband jumped. Now I know why.”

She slapped him so hard, a stabbing pain shot down her arm.

He almost slapped her back but caught himself just short of her face. “This isn’t over,” he snarled, letting his hand drop. Turning, he strode away, nearly knocking over a rotund, middle-aged woman coming through the door.

“My goodness!” Mrs. Beecham murmured as soon as the duke slammed shut the shop door. “Was that the celebrated Duke of Groveland?”

“Yes.” With considerable effort Rosalind overcame the fury in her voice, the single word escaping in a sibilant hiss.

Mrs. Beecham was staring out the window at Groveland’s swiftly retreating form. “Can you imagine a man of his consequence coming into your little store?” she exclaimed in wonder. “Do you think he might return? I do so wish he might. He is quite the eligible party, my dear. I do hope you were on your best behavior with such a superior person.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Beecham. He is
most
unusual,” Rosalind said, curbing her inclination to describe his character in vile, graphic detail.

“Isn’t he just! Rich, handsome, with a distinguished, ancient title—and single, my dear. Even dukes marry beneath them on occasion. Did he seem taken with you? Perhaps even the slightest bit?” she queried, breathlessly.

“I didn’t detect that sort of interest, Mrs. Beecham,” Rosalind muttered.

Rosalind’s sarcasm wasted on her, Mrs. Beecham said with an insinuating little wink, “Well, if he returns, I’d suggest you put yourself out to please him. You have to think of your future, my dear. You’re out of mourning now, and you’re not getting any younger.”

“I’m sure Groveland is quite busy with the revels of fashionable society. I have no expectations, Mrs. Beecham—none at all. Now, let me show you the new novels that arrived yesterday. Mrs. Thornhill has written a most delightful story and I know she’s one of your favorites.”

After Groveland’s spiteful threats the last person she wished to discuss was his eminence, the most odious, hateful man in England!

Chapter 4

WHILE GUIDING MRS. Beecham to the new novels, Rosalind only half listened to the woman’s chatter, planning instead how best to defend herself against Groveland’s attack—which would surely come.

He’d turned out to be the exact spoiled, arrogant aristocrat she’d expected. Quick-tempered when rebuffed, indifferent to all but his own wishes, intent on riding roughshod over anyone who stood in his way.

But she would not be intimidated.

She owned her building; he could not dislodge her.

No matter what.

 

 

STRIDING SWIFTLY DOWN Bond Street toward Piccadilly, Fitz was currently focused on that
what
. And the mood he was in, the Monckton Row project wasn’t even a consideration.

Retaliation was foremost in his mind.

And winning against the insufferable Mrs. St. Vincent!

He cautioned himself to calm as he quickly made his way toward Hutchinson’s office, but with his temper in high dudgeon, issues of reason and restraint were largely nullified. All he could think about was triumphing over the hot-tempered, unreasonable,
defiant
bitch.

Good God, he’d never before felt like striking a woman.

Never.

That she was the most perverse and bold-as-brass female he’d ever met was no doubt cause for his aberrant behavior.

As for the circumstances of her husband’s death, after bearing the brunt of Mrs. St. Vincent’s sharp tongue, he thought it rather likely that she
had
driven the poor man to jump.

Crossing Piccadilly Square, Groveland entered the grand Italianate palazzo that bespoke Hutchinson’s repute as a jurist. Passing through the resplendent marble-columned foyer, he took the stairs at a run and barged into Hutchinson’s office suite like a bull in a china shop. “I’ll see myself in,” he crisply asserted, striding past the law clerks who served as assistants, errand boys, and in this case, gatekeepers.

One of the young men jumped up and courageously blocked Fitz’s path. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but Mr. Hutchinson is with a client.”

“Then get rid of him.”

The young man’s bravery faltered before the duke’s blunt, gimlet-eyed order, but only for a moment. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t do that.”

Fitz gave the young man credit for nerve. “I see. Then could you tell me who Hutchinson is with?” A flicker of amusement gleamed in Groveland’s eyes. “Or would that be too much to ask?”

“No, sir, of course not, sir. Mr. Hutchinson is with the Earl of Somerset.”

Fitz smiled. “Charlie won’t mind if I intrude.” Smoothly sidestepping the young clerk, he strode toward Hutchinson’s office. “I’ll make sure to tell your employer you did your best to stop me,” he tossed back over his shoulder.

Seconds later, he closed the door behind him and smiled at the two men who had turned at his entrance. “Your boy tried to stop me, Hutchinson. Don’t sack him. Morning, Charlie. I’m in a helluva temper and even more of a rush. I need a few moments of Hutchinson’s time.”

Charlie Melville grinned. “Some woman after your skin?”

“On the contrary, some woman needs to be put in her place.”

“Hell, Fitz, I thought you knew how to do that better than anyone. In bed and under you. Ain’t that your way? ”

“Unfortunately, this woman is proving difficult. Have a drink Charlie,” Fitz suggested, nodding at Hutchinson’s drink trolley, the earl known to often drink his breakfast. “This won’t take long. If I could speak with you, Prosper,” he added, indicating a grouping of chairs across the room with a wave of his hand.

As the men took their seats a moment later, Hutchinson said, “I gather Mrs. St. Vincent wasn’t cooperative.”

“She is unspeakably ill-natured and blind to all reason,” Fitz brusquely retorted. “I want her crushed.” Holding up a finger, he smiled thinly. “Let me rephrase that. I want her gone. I don’t care how you do it.”

The barrister suppressed his astonishment; Groveland was not a vindictive man. “While I understand your exasperation,” he cautioned, “as your barrister, I have to remind you that certain legalities must be observed.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Fitz murmured, dismissing Hutchinson’s reservations. “Naturally, she must be dealt with lawfully. But you know as well as I that legalities are, shall we say, flexible.”

“To a point, Your Grace. Only to a point.”

Fitz’s dark brows rose. “That definitive point is what I pay you for, Hutchinson. I expect you to calibrate the boundaries to a nicety.” He blew out a breath. “I’m not unreasonable. I just want it done.”

“I understand. Naturally, I’m at your disposal.”

Hutchinson always had the capacity to calm; maybe it was his voice. Or his steadiness and lack of alarm. Fitz sighed and smiled faintly. “Imperturbable as usual, Hutchinson. What would I do without you?”

Since Groveland was his best client and a decent man as well, the barrister said with utter sincerity, “I could say the same, Your Grace. You have been a most generous patron.”

“This particular problem will tax your ingenuity as well as your patience, I’m afraid. Not that I’m advocating all out war mind you—for now at least.” His gaze narrowed faintly. “It might be helpful to investigate Mrs. St. Vincent’s personal life with an eye to gaining some leverage. Does she have debts, for instance, and if so, who holds the paper? Does she engage in dalliance? Might we unearth some scandal in that regard? Is it possible her family might be useful in persuading her to accept our offer? I’ll leave it to you to find some means to change her mind.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

“I knew I could count on you,” Fitz warmly noted. “In the meantime, I’ll attempt some personal persuasion with regard to Mrs. St. Vincent. I’ll offer her an abject apology for my impetuous temper.” He smiled. “I mentioned her husband’s death in uncivil terms for which I’ll eat humble pie and do penance. Then I’ll ply her with the usual bibelots women fancy and attempt to win her over with my”—he smiled again—“largesse. We shall employ
your
sticks and
my
carrots to a, hopefully, successful conclusion. By the way, I offered her twenty thousand.”

Hutchinson wasn’t prone to gasp, but twenty thousand drew a rare gasp from him. “She turned it down?” His barrister’s mind wished complete clarity on such breathtaking moral rectitude.

“Emphatically. And caustically, I might add.” Fitz stood. “I won’t intrude further on your time. Keep me informed of whatever information you unearth. I’m off to speak with Williams now. He might be able to redesign that corner or at least postpone construction as it relates to her bookstore until we acquire it.” Turning, he waved at Somerset. “Thanks, Charlie! Are you hunting at Arlie’s next month?”

“Would I miss it?”

“Then I’ll see you there.”

His mood much improved, the duke leisurely strolled toward St. James’s. Hutchinson’s staff would be fully engaged in obtaining pertinent details on Mrs. St. Vincent’s personal life that could prove useful. She, like everyone, had skeletons in her closet—the husband’s gambling activities, for one. And with a woman of Mrs. St. Vincent’s arresting beauty, he doubted she lived a chaste life.

While he personally ignored society’s strictures when it came to morals, a woman, particularly one of lesser rank, could not so easily disregard them. Scandal accrued to females of middling rank who engaged in fornication outside the marriage bed. And as he understood it, the husband had been deceased for some time. Surely, in her widowhood, the beautiful, voluptuous Mrs. St. Vincent had been tempted to indulge her passions on occasion.

In fact, had he not detected a moment of prurient interest—however quickly suppressed—this morning over tea?

The thought of which was intriguing. Nor could he completely discount the satisfaction he would experience—beyond the obvious sexual gratification—if he were successful in bringing the lovely Mrs. St. Vincent to bed in the course of his
persuasion
campaign.

Was she a screamer?

He smiled.

He rather thought she might be.