Gorgeous as Sin (4 page)

Chapter 5

AT THE SAME time Groveland was contemplating making love to his adversary, the object of his musing was seated across from her friend, Sofia Eastleigh, and explaining in a voice of contained fury, “You can’t imagine the high-handed, barefaced gall of the man! His Grace, the
esteemed
duke of every profligacy on the face of the earth, said to me with shameless arrogance, ‘Your property stands in the way of my project,’ as if I should instantly capitulate because my bookstore happens to be in his way and
his
wish is my command! Ha! Never!”

Sofia grinned. “I expect he was angry when he left.”

“Not as angry as I, believe me! If Mrs. Beecham hadn’t come in as he was leaving I would have screamed the heaven’s down around his insolent head! I am so completely disgusted with rich nobles who think they can have anything they want simply because they want it! It’s outrageous! And wrong!”

Sofia had lived too long on her own resources to look askance at wealth of any kind, but she kindly said, “You see the world through your social consciousness, darling. I confess I don’t. Not that I don’t understand policy reforms would offer better lives for the poor. But consider, Groveland is offering to buy you out for a considerable sum.”

“I’m doing very well on my own,” Rosalind said with a contemptuous sniff, reaching for another slice of poppy cake in her frustration.

“You just don’t like men of his ilk. Admit it.”

“Of course I don’t,” Rosalind said through a mouthful of cake. “Why should I when”—she swallowed—“men like Groveland do nothing but make love, gamble, and hunt? What a useless life!”

“Useless he may be in some respects,” Sofia murmured, “but I thought him very charming when I met him at Leighton’s last year.” Unlike Rosalind, Sofia viewed men as utilitarian adjuncts to her life: as lovers, payers of rent, amusing companions over dinner, race track associates when she was flush.

Rosalind scowled. “I suppose he can be altogether charming when he doesn’t want anything of yours!”

“Or anything other than a roll in the hay. Which is his speciality as everyone knows—not precisely hay, of course; I’m sure he prefers more civilized venues for making love.”

“From all accounts he’s not so scrupulous,” Rosalind said haughtily.

“That could be. He was flirting with Flora, Leighton’s model, that day I met him, and everyone knows she’s not averse to offering herself standing up in a corner if a suitor comes bearing gifts or is handsome enough.” Sofia lifted her pale brows. “And you must concede, Groveland is extremely handsome.”

“I don’t care if he’s the handsomest man in the world! Nor do I care if he and Leighton’s model had relations in the middle of Leighton’s studio!
His Grace
,” Rosalind wrathfully articulated, “is rude, overbearing, brazenly autocratic, and he’s
not
getting my bookstore!” She reached for another slice of cake.

“Then you win and he loses. And you needn’t spend another second infuriated with him. Nor,” Sofia pointed out with a smile, “eat the entire cake because you’re in a rage.”

Rosalind sighed. “You’re right.” She looked at the slice of cake in her hand, then at the few remaining pieces on the cake plate, and grimaced. “If I keep this up, I’ll look like a horse.”

“Hardly, darling. I could only hope to have your voluptuous curves.”

“Then you might think about eating occasionally. One of these days you’re going to simply float away. While I shall waddle away,” Rosalind said with a grin, putting down the slice of cake. “As for Groveland and his kind, they don’t deserve another moment of my time.” She sat up straighter. “There. I am calm. Calm and in control. My life is agreeable in every way.” She smiled. “I apologize for my rant. You’ve been a dear to listen so patiently.”

“Why shouldn’t I? You’re always willing to hear my laments about Luke and the evils of the Academy?”

“How is he by the way?”

Sofia wrinkled her delicate nose. “As bad as ever.”

“You really must find someone else,” Rosalind insisted with the objective clarity of an uninvolved party.

Sofia smiled ruefully. “Like you found someone other than Edward?”

“He couldn’t help his gambling addiction,” Rosalind murmured.

“He didn’t even try.”

Rosalind made a moue. “I know.”

“And of course you wouldn’t think of divorce.”

“No.” She and Sofia had gone over this ground before. Who would have taken care of Edward had she divorced him? And more to the point, who would have paid for the divorce? “But do consider finding someone who treats you well, darling. You’re so enormously talented. Luke will never be a brilliant painter like you, and he resents your artistic gifts.”

“I wish I could argue the point.” Sofia shrugged. “At least the world is slowly changing. Just think, before long, women might win a place in the greater scheme of things.”

Rosalind smiled. “First we need the vote.”

“True, and yet,” Sofia softly replied, “we have more options than our mothers did.”

“Indeed. My mother has given up her entire life to care for my father. She doesn’t begrudge her role, but I find myself unwilling to play the mute, compliant wife.”

“As if you ever did,” her friend drolly noted.

“Someone had to deal with the day-to-day living. It was not Edward’s strong suit.”

“Maybe it’s time you think about playing the merry widow,” her friend suggested with a sly smile. “You work too hard. You don’t have enough fun.” Sofia winked. “Carnal amusements can be a very satisfying diversion. And while I’m not advocating for Groveland, if you were in the market for a diversion, he’d be certainly high on anyone’s list. His reputation is well deserved according to my friend Annie. She spent Ascot week with him and they never actually saw a race.”

Rosalind grimaced. “That’s exactly why Groveland holds no interest for me; he’s a complete libertine. Even if I chose to divert myself as you put it, I’d prefer my partner remember my name. I’m sure the women in Groveland’s life are no more than a nameless blur.”

“Who cares if he remembers your name if the sex is memorable. It’s not about conversation, darling, but about pleasure. But I’ll say no more. I just think you should consider adding sexual satisfaction to your life. Widowhood isn’t healthy.”

Rosalind smiled. “So we’re speaking about my health now?”

Sofia pouted prettily. “Fine, ridicule me if you wish, but I’d rather get my exercise from orgasms than a walk in Hyde Park.”

“Amorous entertainments are quite wonderful I don’t doubt. But I’m perfectly satisfied with my life. And I’m too busy anyway.”

“You really should think about taking a holiday.” Sofia smiled. “Maybe you’d meet someone at the seashore.”

Rosalind laughed. “You’re certainly persistent, but who would take care of my store? The fairies? And you should talk. I haven’t seen you on holiday lately.”

“Touché. Perhaps we’re both obsessed. Now that my work is selling, I want to paint even more. I have money for supplies for the first time in my life, for canvas and brushes, good ones. And for the best paints.”

“Success couldn’t come to a more deserving person,” Rosalind said with a warm smile. Sofia had first approached her about showing her work two years ago, and together the women had contrived to bring not only Sofia’s work but also that of several other female artists into the public arena. Eventually, even the critics—who generally supported conservative rather than progressive trends—began to review their shows. “And I guarantee your new landscapes will all sell within the week. They’re absolutely gorgeous.” Coming to her feet, Rosalind picked up Sofia’s newest painting. “Let’s put this in a place of honor on the back wall so everyone will see it first on entering the gallery.”

“It is rather nice if I do say so myself; it’s Augustus’s backyard,” Sofia remarked, following Rosalind as she made her way toward the back of the store, and temporarily abandoning the subject of Rosalind’s overlong celibacy. It was a long-standing topic of conversation between them anyway. “The man is the most glorious gardener.”

“I agree; your impression of his delphiniums is particularly lush. The color fairly dazzles the eye.”

“And so we shall dazzle the critics tonight,” Sofia playfully declared, moving on to innocuous matters. “I sent notices to all the papers last week.”

Rosalind glanced back over her shoulder. “Perhaps that handsome young art critic from the
Times
will be here tonight. He seemed to appreciate not only your work but
you
as well the last time he reviewed our show.”

“We’ll see.” A pretty model before she took up painting, Sofia was familiar with fawning swains. “After Luke’s sullenness of late, I’m not sure I’m inclined to be pleasant to a man.”

“You’ll be in a better mood once all your paintings are sold and you’re a good deal richer.”

Sofia grinned. “Oh yes, money definitely raises my spirits.”

 

 

WHILE THE WOMEN were hanging Sofia’s painting, Fitz met with his architect, Ian Williams. Williams was disappointed at the delay in their schedule, but cooperative. Naturally, he would redesign the entrance to the secluded mews he said, but he made it clear to the duke that the character of the private street lined with elegant townhomes would be sadly marred should the bookshop continue to occupy its present site.

“I expect the shop will soon be mine,” Fitz replied soothingly. “But should an alternative be required, I’d like to be prepared.”

“I understand,” Williams said grudgingly, the idea of having to alter his plan disconcerting to his artistic temperament. “Would it help if I showed the lady my designs, Your Grace? If she understood the critical position her store occupies, she might more readily agree to sell.”

“I rather doubt it, but thank you for offering,” Fitz replied. “An optional plan is only a precaution. I fully anticipate being back on schedule within a fortnight.”

“That’s a relief, sir.” The fashionable young architect smiled for the first time since Groveland had entered his office.

“Hutchinson and I are both dealing with the lady. We expect all to be resolved very soon. In the meantime, I’ll rely on your creativity to provide an auxiliary concept—something to distract the eye from the bookstore perhaps. Or shield it in some way. She owns the building but not the pavement. I believe that is mine according to the legal documents.”

Williams grinned. “I could barricade her as it were.”

“Indeed you could.”
A ten-foot wall perhaps.
“We are agreed then,” the duke more gracefully remarked as he came to his feet.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’ll wish you a good day. Send my secretary a note when the new plans are finished.”

After leaving Williams’s office, Fitz returned home and searched out Stanley. He found him cataloguing recent additions to the library.

Entering the large, well-lit room that had been built by one of his Georgian ancestors and added to by each subsequent generation, and which was now considered one of the finest libraries in England, Fitz approached the desk where Stanley was working. “I have a commission for you,” he crisply said. “I’d like you to go round to Grey’s directly and speak to a Mr. Montgomery.” He paused in his instructions while Stanley reached for a paper and pen. “Tell him I need several little fripperies,” he continued once his secretary’s pen was poised over the paper. “He’ll know what I mean. A few modern pieces, too. The lady’s taste is avant-garde. I’ll give you some inscriptions to bring along. Montgomery will know what to do with those as well.” Having reached the desk, Groveland bent forward, pulled a sheet of paper toward him, took the offered pen, and quickly scribbled several lines. “That should do.” He handed the sheet to Stanley and took a step back. “I’m in the process of wooing Mrs. St. Vincent away from her current address,” he said, smiling faintly.

“For the Monckton Row project.”

Fitz nodded. “She’s the last holdout, as you know. I intend to apologize to her tomorrow, so see that I have the baubles by this evening. The store opens at ten in the morning.” He held up crossed fingers. “You may wish me luck.”

“Good luck, sir. By the way, have you read her late husband’s poetry?”

Having turned to leave, the duke swung back. “No, have you?”

“Yes.”

He met Stanley’s gaze. “And?”

“It’s of a rather maudlin nature, sir. I hear the Queen enjoyed it, which may indicate the audience for that particular style of verse.”

“Old ladies, you mean.”

“And also those of a sensitive nature,” Stanley added with a raised brow.

Fitz’s eyes flared wide for a second. “Don’t say the man was—”

“No, no, sir, I meant a certain tender aesthetic imbues the poetry that perhaps touches a similar delicate vein in those who admire it.”

“Still,” Fitz softly murmured, contemplating another ripe avenue of investigation, “it might not hurt to look into the late Mr. St. Vincent’s amusements.”

“To all accounts, sir, he was the best of husbands.”

“Discounting his gambling habit. You’ve already looked into this?”

“Just a little, sir. I happen to know Marcus Dodd, who was a poet friend of the late Mr. St. Vincent. We were at Eton together.”

“Find out everything you can about St. Vincent. Scandals preferably. We need some means of exerting pressure on the lady. Now, the jewelry in my hands by evening. Understood?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll go to Grey’s immediately.”

“Do you have a particular lady friend?”

The young man blushed. “I’m hopeful, sir.”

“Well, get the young lady some trinket in recompense for all your hard work.”

“You already pay me handsomely, sir.”

“But not handsomely enough to buy jewelry at Grey’s,” Fitz said with a grin. “So buy her something with my blessing, and I’d suggest you add some pretty inscription. Women like flowery sentiments I’ve found.”