Gorgeous as Sin (5 page)

Chapter 6

FITZ SPENT THE afternoon at Tattersalls buying new bloodstock, followed by drinks and cards at Brooks’s with those of his friends still in town. And despite his activities—all quite normal and unexceptional—images of Mrs. St. Vincent kept looping through his mind. Erotic images of the most lascivious nature that persisted despite every effort to dismiss them.

He should ignore her attraction and his carnal urges. At base, it was probably more about their skirmish over the property—about winning and losing—than anything else.

Women never offered him challenge. That he wished to subdue her was perhaps male instinct at the most primordial level—sex, the ultimate submission. Or primal motive aside, he might simply be reverting to type. Mrs. St. Vincent was beautiful and tantalizing; why wouldn’t he want to fuck her?

The large amount of brandy he’d imbibed may also have contributed to his salacious and urgent desires.

Although, he wasn’t drunk.

He didn’t get drunk.

But that he was increasingly fixated on whether or not the lady was a screamer could not be denied.

About to raise on a winning hand, he abruptly gave into his impulses and set down his cards. “I’m out.”

“Why? It’s still early.” Lord Bedford waved toward the mauve twilight visible through the windows. “The ladies at Madame Rivera’s are barely out of bed. Might as well stay.”

“You can’t leave now, dammit,” Avon muttered. “There’s no one else can match me drink for drink.”

Fitz handed his markers to a flunkey who had materialized at his side. “I have a meeting to attend.”

Everyone at the table stared at him dumbfounded.

“What? Is that so unheard of?”

“It is at this time of day,” Freddie said with a jaundiced glance. “So who’s the lady?”

“No one you know,” Fitz replied, rising to his feet. “I wish you a pleasant evening.”

“Dammit, Monk, tell us her name,” Freddie insisted while a buzz of queries erupted around him: “At least give us a hint, Fitz. She must be bourgeois; everyone is gone from town. Does she have friends? Of course she has friends. Don’t keep the ladies for your eyes only. It’s not fair. Don’t we always share?”

Reticent to his friends’ lively inquisition, Fitz only said, “Fair or not, this lady is for
my
eyes only.” His brows flickered briefly. “She’s a rare challenge, gentlemen. Need I say more?”

As Fitz walked away, a flurry of conversation echoed in his wake. The Monk always had been more than willing to share his lady loves, his exhibitionist tendencies not only well known but also much admired. In the insulated club world in which the privileged nobles of Fitz’s acquaintance had been raised, making love was often perceived as male sport. And spectators were part of the amusement.

As for a challenge, the rank heresy made them speculate that this female was either illicitly young or some wife locked away by a jealous husband. They couldn’t conceive of any other circumstances that would challenge The Monk’s seductive skills.

Naturally, bets were made as to which was the case.

Immune to his friends’ speculations, intent only on personal gratification, Fitz made his way home. After bathing, he partook of another brandy while his valet helped him dress for the evening.

“The dowager duchess will be in town tomorrow, sir,” Darby said, holding out a fine cambric shirt. “On the eleven o’clock train.”

Fitz shot a look over his shoulder. “Are you sure? I thought she was in Paris.” Setting down his glass, he slid his arms through the sleeves and slipped the shirt over his head.

“According to Stanley, Her Grace tired of Lady Montrose’s company. As anyone would, I expect, sir.”

“Agreed. Thank you for the warning,” Fitz noted, sliding the pearl studs into place down his shirtfront. “I’ll make sure to be home for lunch. See that we have those strawberries Mother likes.”

“All is in order, sir.” Darby held out a white silk waistcoat and waited for the duke to tuck his shirt into his trousers. “The cook is busy making the sweets the dowager fancies, the blue suite is being aired, and the dog bed is in place under the windows.”

Fitz buttoned up his trousers. “And little Pansy will run all our lives once again.”

“Indeed, sir,” Darby grumbled as he slipped the waistcoat over Fitz’s shoulders. “It’s more a mop than a dog if you ask me.”

“But Mother’s dear mop,” Fitz said with a grin, fastening the self-covered buttons down the front of his waistcoat. “So we shall do our duty, eh, Darby?”

“Yes, sir.” He held out Fitz’s evening coat.

“How long is Mother staying?”

“Stanley didn’t know.”

“Hmm . . .” Fitz regarded himself briefly in the cheval glass before taking the ironed bills Darby held out to him and shoving them into his trouser pocket. “Then I must be on my best behavior for an unknown period of time.”

“Just make sure you’re home by the time the dowager duchess arrives,” Darby sardonically replied, realistic about the duke’s style of entertainments.

Picking up the glass of brandy, Fitz quickly drained it, handed it to Darby, and said, “Don’t wait up for me.”

“Would you care to leave an address should I have to fetch you?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back before Mother arrives.”

“Just don’t forget.”

“I’m warned, Darby. But I’m only off for an evening stroll. There’s a possibility I may return shortly.”

“Care to make a wager on that, sir?” the valet drily said.

Fitz grinned. Darby had been his valet since childhood. “Excellent. I hope you’re right. I am facing a veritable minefield of distrust tonight.”

“I expect you’ll find your way through, sir.”

“Your confidence inspires me,” Fitz waggishly replied.

“Don’t forget the jewelry, sir.” Darby nodded at the sparkling objects on a nearby table. “I expect those baubles will clear your path right quick.”

“Ah, yes . . . thanks for the reminder.” Fitz slipped the items in his coat pockets, patted them lightly, and grinned. “I suddenly feel a run of good luck.”

“Lady Luck generally comes through when you get that feeling, sir.”

Fitz gave Darby a considering look. “You’re right. Say, why don’t you take one of these in honor of the fortuitous occasion? We’ll have the inscription changed for Sarah. Here, take this one.” He pulled out a glittering slither of rubies. “She’ll like it.”

“No, sir.” His valet held a palm up. “Really, it’s not necessary.”

“Take it. I insist. Rubies aren’t really right for Mrs. St. Vincent’s coloring anyway. She has reddish hair.” Fitz held the bracelet up to the light and shook his head. “Actually, they’re completely wrong.” He stuffed the bracelet into Darby’s jacket pocket. “And remember to go to sleep early tonight. You know how busy tomorrow will be with Mother in residence.”

A moment later, Darby was alone, only the duke’s retreating tread audible as he made his way toward the main staircase. Pulling the bracelet from his pocket, Darby studied the sparkling jewels. Another item to add to his wife Sarah’s collection. With the duke’s liberal generosity over the years, he and his wife could have retired long since.

But the boy needed taking care of; he had from the first.

His pa had been the devil incarnate and his ma had been busy with her society friends, so Darby and Sarah had taken a hand. And if he said so himself, Darby thought, the young scamp had turned out right well.

And so he said to his wife when he went below stairs a short time later. The magnificent bracelet had been put away and they were having a cup of tea in their cozy quarters.

“Now if only the boy could find some woman to love, and I don’t mean that kind o’ love,” his wife muttered, stirring her tea furiously as if in rebuke. “He’s been alone too long. It ain’t good for him.”

“We can’t
make
him fall in love,” Darby pointed out.

“Not to mention all them society belles are scatter-brained, misbehaving females,” Sarah grumbled. “It ain’t gonna help him any to marry someone what will jump from bed to bed like him.”

“He’s got his ma. They’re good friends. He’s not alone.”

“But he needs a wife.” Sarah sent her husband a sharp look. “Where’s he off to tonight?”

“To see that bookstore lady who’s givin’ him trouble. His pockets are full o’ jewelry Stanley picked up for him this afternoon.”

“What does she look like? Tall, short? How old is she? Is she married? I hope not, although she at least works for a living, which is more than I can say for all the fine ladies he knows. And the not-so-fine ladies he knows who make a living on their backsides. Well, tell me about her,” his wife finished, brows raised and waiting for answers.

“Stanley says she’s a widow. Beautiful as Venus, he says. He went lookin’ in case the duke needed his help. But she’s bein’ real difficult, Stanley says.”

“There ain’t a woman who can turn down the kind o’ jewels Fitzie gives away. She’ll come around,” Sarah pronounced. “They always do.”

“I’m not so sure this time. And taking gifts don’t mean nothin’. It don’t mean she’ll sell her place, and it don’t mean she likes him neither. Stanley seems to think she’s different somehow.”

“Like how?”

“Respectable, he said. Not the usual kind. A woman who stayed with her husband who didn’t do much of anything to support her. He wrote poesy verse.”

“Then she might like a man what is a man who can do anything. You know, Fitizie. There’s nothing he can’t do,” Sarah proudly declared. “He’d make the right woman a right fine husband.”

“Now don’t start,” her husband warned, recognizing the matchmaking look in his wife’s eyes. “You ain’t been lucky so far.”

“Then my chances are improving. Right?”

Darby gave his wife a lowering look. “Wrong.”

Chapter 7

SHORTLY BEFORE NINE, Fitz was strolling toward Bruton Street, drawn to Mrs. St. Vincent’s bookstore for reasons other than business.

Boredom perhaps.

Lust certainly.

A curiosity beyond the sexual nudged his sensibilities as well, although that unknown factor was quickly suppressed.

Regardless his motivations, fate appeared to be taking a hand in his undertaking for as he approached the lighted store he saw that Mrs. St. Vincent was entertaining. Or rather hosting an event. He recognized the young art critic from the
Times
; they often met at artists’ studios. He also observed the correspondent for the women’s pages in
Country Life
. He and Miss Baldwin had shared a heated rendezvous at Countess Dalton’s costume ball last year. So even if Mrs. St. Vincent demurred, he mused with a small smile, there was a good chance he wouldn’t be without a bed partner tonight.

Apropos Mrs. St. Vincent, however, the circumstances couldn’t have been more opportune. Rather than having to privately approach the lady who had angrily dismissed him that morning, he could simply become another guest admiring the art at a public exhibition.

She wouldn’t dare throw him out. Think how awkward such a contretemps would be with reporters in full view.

He smiled. Darby was right: Lady Luck was definitely on his side, or perhaps, he reflected, offering up a prayer of thanksgiving, some sympathetic deity had intervened. Eros maybe.

Whatever the manner of auspicious fate, he was feeling a rare excitement.

Vastly uncommon of late.

And he knew it wasn’t Miss Baldwin arousing his senses. Not that she could be faulted for either her fair beauty or sexual enthusiasm.

Rather, it was the stunning Mrs. St. Vincent inspiring his sensibilities. The possibility she might yield to him brought another smile to his lips. A night of shared passion not only would be a personal victory but might also lead to a successful business transaction.

She was particularly breathtaking tonight in cream charmeuse and very little else unless his eyes deceived him. Her gown was quite daring.

Which further piqued his interest.

Would she be equally daring in bed?

 

 

ROSALIND SAW HIM the moment he walked in, her reaction enough to cause Sofia, who was standing beside her, to follow her gaze.

“We are singularly graced with the aristocracy tonight,” Sofia said softly; the avant-garde exhibits were generally outside the purview of the upper classes. They preferred the vetted Royal Academy shows.

“He’s here for no good,” Rosalind muttered.

“Or he could be interested in the exhibit. Remember, he
is
a collector.”

“I doubt his motives are benign. Make sure you stay by my side,” Rosalind ordered, feeling herself tense as the duke walked toward them. Then inexplicably, a flaring excitement raced through her senses and furious at both Groveland’s magnetic appeal and her shameless response, she greeted him with an unmistakably snappish tone. “To what do we owe this pleasure, Your Grace?”

“Am I intruding? I thought this was a public exhibition.” His voice, in contrast, was softly urbane.

“Indeed it is,” Sofia quickly interposed, sending Rosalind a quelling glance. “Everyone’s most welcome.”

“Forgive me. You’re welcome of course,” Rosalind murmured, understanding that her personal feelings were immaterial; selling paintings was the prime object of the evening. “Your Grace, allow me to present Sofia Eastleigh, one of the artists whose work is on display. Sofia, Groveland.”

“We’ve met before.” Fitz smiled at Sofia. “And I recognize your work.” He nodded at her delphinium painting visible in the distance. “Although, I haven’t seen you at Leighton’s of late.”

“My leisure time is limited now that my art is actually selling. The more I paint, the more I sell,” Sofia explained with a grin.

“Congratulations. Although anyone with your talent was sure to meet with success.”

“Thank you. According to Leighton you’re no mean draftsman yourself.”

“Leighton is being generous,” Fitz replied with well-bred grace. “I’m the most amateur of dabblers.”

“Didn’t you have two drawings in the last Academy show?”

Fitz lifted one brow. “Sir Joffrey had partisan motives. He likes to fish at my Scottish property.”

“You’re much too modest. They were excellent.”

Just as Rosalind was beginning to feel like a third wheel, Fitz turned to her and said with a disarming smile and a singularly intimate gaze, “Might I impose on you to show me around your gallery, Mrs. St. Vincent?”

Rosalind suddenly felt as though she were alone with him in the midst of the crowd, his intense grey gaze mesmerizing. Then out of the blue, a flame-hot jolt of desire spiked downward, shocking her senses, inciting wholly unacceptable passionate cravings.

She faintly heard Sofia say, “Go,” but only when she felt the pressure of Sofia’s hand on her back did she regain a modicum of self-possession.

“If you please, Groveland,” she said, her words still faintly breathy. Warning herself to get hold of her senses, she dipped her head in his direction and added more lucidly, “Do follow me.”

Tantalized by her shapely form on display beneath the simplicity of her clinging gown, captivated by the heated moment when their eyes had met, only too aware of her jasmine scent in his nostrils, Fitz was in the mood to follow her anywhere at all.

Which meant his plans for the evening were falling nicely into place.

She was willing even if she didn’t know it.

The point was, he did.

Her slender, curvaceous figure was equally enticing from the rear, her gliding walk, the gentle sway of her hips pure temptation. The radical chic of her gown offered the merest sop to convention. She might as well have been naked beneath the sleek medieval-style dress reminiscent of Rossetti’s paintings.

Hopefully she soon would be.

He glanced at his wristwatch. Merde. He’d have to play the gentleman for some time yet.

And so he did, listening politely as she guided him around the exhibit, making the appropriate responses to the work shown him, never overstepping the bounds of politesse. In short, presenting a completely different persona than he had earlier that day. However, he liked that she blushed if he held her glance a moment too long, and he also liked that her manner toward him softened as they wandered the exhibit.

The space was relatively small, though, so afterward, when he took time to speak to the various artists either in Rosalind’s company or alone, he was never far from the object of his pursuit. Including the time Miss Baldwin cornered him and commenced pressing her suit with vigor. Pressing her substantial bosom against his chest as well with complete disregard for their audience.

“People are looking, sweetheart,” he murmured, keeping his hands to himself, not wishing to openly push her away for fear of embarrassing her.

“I don’t care,” she purred, rubbing against him, the lace ruffle on her low decolletage suddenly catching on one of his pearl studs.

“Ah, but you should care, dearest,” he added under his breath, trying to detach the lace without tearing it. Oh, Christ—Mrs. St. Vincent had glanced his way and frowned. “Why don’t we plan on spending some time together tomorrow instead?” he suggested, needing to quickly extricate himself from Miss Baldwin’s clutches and lace ruffles.

Her upturned gaze was suddenly sharp. “When tomorrow?”

“Anytime.” He stepped back.
There, finally.

“Are you busy tonight?” A small pettish query at both his excuse and the fact that he’d backed away from her.

“Actually, my mother is coming in on the midnight train,” he lied.

“Your mother?” Her sky blue eyes were skeptical.

“Yes, upon my word.”
All’s fair in love and war.

She paused briefly in consideration, then looking at him from under her lashes, coquettishly said, “Very well. The Savoy at four.”

He smiled. “Excellent. Do you like roses?”

“Of course, darling.” She reached out and ran her fingers down the fine silk of his waistcoat in a proprietary gesture. “Red roses,” she murmured in a sultry contralto.

Watching Miss Baldwin walk away, it took him a moment to collect himself, having only narrowly averted a scene. And he well knew she was not a woman who gave up gracefully. After Charlotte’s costume ball, she’d relentlessly pursued him, going so far as to call at his home. Fortunately, the race season had begun at the time and he was rarely in London. As for the Savoy engagement, time enough to deal with that tomorrow. Right now, he had more pleasant prospects in mind.

For the remaining hours of the exhibit, he avoided Miss Baldwin and unostentatiously pursued Mrs. St. Vincent. Rather than offering posies and charming phrases in the usual seduction, Fitz cultivated the lady’s good will instead by purchasing a dozen paintings.

Rosalind was naturally delighted. She was further enchanted by his amiable rapport with her artist friends; she had not thought a peer of Groveland’s consequence could be so unaffected. Particularly after his high-handed arrogance that morning.

But he turned out to be enormously gracious and engaging, even so kind as to send for champagne from his cellar for her guests. Rosalind couldn’t help but be gratified. She found herself reconsidering her previous judgment, viewing him now in a much more favorable light.

After all, the show was a huge success thanks in part to Groveland’s largesse. The women artists she sponsored were considerably more prosperous—again, thanks to the duke.

Sofia, apparently, was in accord when it came to Groveland’s benevolence for she spoke up for him sometime later as they were refilling trays of sweets in Rosalind’s kitchen. “You might want to change your mind about Groveland, darling. Not only is he a generous patron of the arts, he’s really quite lovely in any number of ways. As you may have noticed.”

Rosalind gave her friend an arch look. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from him. Is he not known for his cultivated graces?”

“I’d say his manner is particularly affable to you.”

“Please,” Rosalind said. “He has ulterior motives as you well know.”

“Of course he does, and if I were you, I’d seriously consider taking him up on his offer.”

“Sell my store!” Rosalind tossed a mutinous look her friend’s way. “Never!”

“I
meant
, darling,” Sofia soothingly replied, “why not spend the night with him and let him gratify your senses? He is in great demand for all the right reasons—very
large
reasons, I’ve heard.”

“For heaven’s sake, Sofia!”

“Some say he posed for Zeus in Noland’s
Rape of Danae
,” Sofia went on undeterred, Rosalind’s rosy flush indicating interest—whether she realized it or not. “Have you seen the painting?” Sofia’s pale brows rose in signal hyperbole. “
Very
impressive male anatomy.”

“I rather think the correspondent from
Country Life
will be taking advantage of Groveland’s impressive anatomy tonight,” Rosalind said with a little sniff.

Sofia looked up from the petit fours she was placing in neat rows on a tray. “I think it bothers you that she might.”

“It certainly does not!”

“Please, I’ve know you too long. Be honest—it does.”

“Well if it does, it shouldn’t,” Rosalind crisply retorted.

“Yorkshire rules? Come, darling, you’re in London now. There aren’t any rules when it comes to passion. Here it’s strictly about self-indulgence or better yet,” she added with a wink, “overindulgence.”

“I’m not interested in passion or indulgence of any kind,” Rosalind firmly said, as if a resolute delivery would translate to an equal decisiveness in her mind.

“Of course you are,” Sofia calmly returned. “Despite your protests. So why not indulge in the breathless joys of passion? And who better than Groveland to offer you those pleasures?”

Rosalind smiled tolerantly at her friend; how many times had they covered this subject in the course of her widowhood? “While you may embrace such breathless sensibilities, my life is about customers and sales, book orders and events like this. But should the time ever come when I’m in the grip of your thrilling emotions, you can be sure I’ll consider gratifying them.”

“Perhaps later tonight,” Sofia slyly murmured.

“No, not tonight.” Rosalind placed the last strawberry tart in place and picked up the tray. “Now enough nonsense. Let’s see if we can sell another painting.”

As a matter of fact, several more paintings were eventually sold, and by eleven the gallery guests were departing, the tarts and petit fours were all eaten, the champagne drunk, and a sense of an evening well spent pervaded the air.

Groveland was standing beside Rosalind as the clock struck the hour.

Taking note of the time, he said, “It’s getting late. Thank you for a lovely evening.” His smile was practiced, but Mrs. St. Vincent was quite inexplicably redefining his casual regard for the women in his life. She inspired a rare predatory instinct; he disliked the feeling. “I’ll send my men in the morning to collect my paintings.” It had been a mistake to come.

No, don’t go!
Rosalind impulsively thought, only to instantly equivocate.
Just say goodnight; do not become involved with the much too charming Duke of Groveland.

Who, unfortunately, wanted her store.

It may have been gypsy fate that Sofia walked over at that moment, or random chance or kismet. Or perhaps scheming design. She was clinging to the arm of the
Times
art critic, who in turn was holding up a bottle of Fitz’s champagne. “If we open this last bottle, will you two have a drink with us?” Sofia brightly inquired. “Since we seem to be the only ones left.”

“I wouldn’t mind a glass,” Fitz heard himself say. So much for reason in the presence of a hot-spur libido.