Seduction in Mind (2 page)

He smiled. "It was merely an expression. Do I call you Mrs. Courts or the dowager countess?"

"I prefer my maiden name."

"Then, Miss Ionides, what I was about to say was that if I were a betting man, I'd lay odds we were about to become good friends."

"You're too arrogant, Ranelagh. I'm not eighteen and easily infatuated by a handsome man, even one of your remarkable good looks."

"While I'm not only fascinated by a woman of your dazzling beauty, but intrigued with your unconventional attitude toward female nudity."

"Because I pose nude, you think me available?"

The merest smile appeared on his lips. "So blunt, Miss Ionides."

"You weren't interested in taking me to tea, I presume."

"We'll do whatever you like," he replied, the suggestion in his voice so subtle, his virtuosity couldn't be faulted. And that, of course, was the problem.

"You've more than enough ladies in your train, Ranelagh. You won't miss me."

"You're sure?" he pursued. "I can't change your mind?"

"Absolutely sure… and no," she declared firmly.

"A shame."

"Speak for yourself. I have a full and gratifying life. If you'll excuse me, Frederic," she said, addressing her host as she rose to her feet. "I have an appointment elsewhere."

The viscount had come to his feet. "May I offer you a ride to your appointment?"

She surveyed him slowly from head to toe, her gaze coming to rest after due deliberation on his amused countenance. "No, you may not."

"I'm crushed," he said, grinning.

"But not for long, I'm sure," she replied crisply, and waving at Leighton and the other men, she walked away.

Everyone followed her progress across the large room, and only when she'd disappeared through the high Moorish arch did conversation resume.

"She's astonishingly beautiful," George Howard said. "I can see why you have her pose for you."

"She
deigns
to pose for me," Leighton corrected his friend. "I'm only deeply grateful, because she models infrequently and according to whim. Although, Alma-Tadema has intrigued her with his newest project." He offered the men a self-deprecating smile. "We're currently competing for her time."

"I'm surprised a woman of her magnificence isn't married again."

"She has notable wealth from both her family and husbands and she prefers her freedom," Leighton offered. "Or so she says."

"From that tone of voice, I'm surmising you've proposed," Eddie observed. "And been refused."

Leighton dipped his handsome leonine head in acknowledgment. "At least I'm in good company. Rumor has it she's turned down most everyone."

"Most?" Sam regarded the artist from beneath his long lashes, his lazy sprawl the picture of indolence.

"She has an occasional affair, I'm told."

"By whom?" Ranelagh's voice was very soft. "With whom?"

"Kemp seems to know. I believe he's acquainted with Alex's maid."

"With whom is she currently entertaining herself then, pray tell." The viscount moved from his lounging pose, his gaze suddenly intent.

"No one I know. A young art student for a time." He shrugged. "A banker she knew through her husband. A priest, someone said." He shook his head. "Only gossip, you understand. Alex keeps her private life private."

"And yet she's willing to pose nude—a blatantly public act."

"She's wealthy enough to do as she pleases… as you no doubt understand," Leighton noted with an urbane smile. "While a model is generally nameless anyway, particularly in cases like this, where a lady prefers a degree of anonymity."

"Like a Madame X."

Leighton shrugged again. "Something like that, I suppose. Although, keep in mind, Alex is also an artist in her own right. She views the nude form as quite separate from societal attitudes."

"Toward women," the viscount observed.

Leighton's expression was unreadable. "I wouldn't venture a guess on Alex's cultural politics."

"You're wasting your time, Sammy." Eddie waved his champagne glass toward the door through which Alex had exited. "She's not going to give you a tumble."

The viscount's dark brows rose faintly. "We'll see."

"That tone of voice always makes me nervous. The last time you said 'We'll see,' I ended up in a Turkish jail from which we were freed only because the British ambassador was a personal friend of the sultan's minister. And why you thought you could get through the phalanx of guards surrounding that harem, I'll never know."

"We almost made it."

"Almost nearly cost us our lives."

"You worry too much."

"While you don't worry at all."

"Of course I do. I was worried Lady Duffin's husband was going to break down the door before we were finished last week."

"So that's why Charles won't speak to you anymore."

The viscount shrugged. "He never did anyway."

Alexandra didn't have another appointment. Rather, she'd felt a desperate need to escape.

Notwithstanding her disapproval of men like Ranelagh, something alarming had happened a few moments ago, and try as she might to disparage the viscount's blatant sexual magnetism and his infamous use of it, she'd found herself not only drawn to him but, more terrifying, tempted. She drew in a calming breath, her emotions in chaos, her nerves on edge, an unusual agitation gripping her senses. Not only were all the stories of the viscount's allure true, the man was fully aware of the effect he had on women—damn him.

Intent on repressing her alarming reaction to their meeting, she reminded herself he was just another man and she wasn't a missish young girl whose head could be turned by a seductive glance and a charming smile. Nor was she some tart who could be bluntly propositioned as though he had but to nod his handsome head and she would fall into his bed.

In spite of the fact that seductive power was his hallmark and he was notorious for inspiring carnal longing in legions of women, she didn't intend to be added to his harem of eager and willing females. She'd spent too many years struggling against conformity, trying to find a role outside the societal standards for women of her class, and she relished her hard-won independence. Surely, she was strong enough to resist a libertine no matter how sinfully handsome or celebrated his sexual expertise.

Regardless of the fact that she'd been celibate since a recent disastrous affair with a man who didn't understand the meaning of no.

Reason, perhaps, for her current agitation.

But after Leon, she'd vowed to be more prudent in her choices.

And Ranelagh would be not only imprudent but—if his conduct at Leighton's was any evidence—impudent as well.

Inexhaustible in bed, however, if rumor were true, a devilish voice inside her head reminded her.

She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, as though she might restrain her carnal urges with so slight a gesture. Impossible, of course, with the stark images of Ranelagh lodged in her brain—his tantalizing smile, the boldness of his glance, the overwhelming sense of power he evoked. He was tall, dark, breath-takingly handsome at close range, and all honed muscle and brute strength beneath the gloss of his fine tailoring. She'd never met such a man before, his presence one of sheer physical force. The purity of his finely modeled features only enhanced his image of physical perfection, while his brooding black eyes and sensual mouth suggested impassioned sensibilities beneath the consummate male animal.

And his hands were so
very
large—which meant—

Good God—she was carrying on like an infatuated adolescent.

Perhaps she should spend a few hours with young Harry and assuage her sexual urges, she tersely thought; he was always so grateful for her company. But boyish gratitude didn't hold much appeal when Ranelagh's virile maleness was in the forefront of her brain. Nor did young Harry's sweetness prevail over the unabashed impatience in Ranelagh's eyes.

"No!" she exclaimed, the sound of her voice shocking in the confined space of her carriage, as was the flagrant extent of her desire.

She really,
really
needed to talk to Rosalind. Her friend was always the voice of reason… or at least one of caution to her rash impulses.

Lady Ormand was entertaining at tea and Alex had to sit through a long, tedious hour before the last guest finally departed. "How do you stand it?" Alex exclaimed as the footman closed the door on the Viscountess Compton. "The conversation was solely of frocks and gowns. Do those women have a life beyond visiting their modiste?"

"Gwendolyn brought Emily and May today since they're in town, and you know how—"

"Shallow they are?"

Her friend smiled. "Indeed. But consider, you learned how to get Brussels lace for half price from Honitons."

"If I'd been listening after the first five minutes, I might have."

"I commend you for your courtesy, then. I doubt they noticed. So tell me, darling, what brought you here at such a dangerous time of day? I know how you dislike teatime."

"I needed your counsel or advice"—Alex paused—"or perhaps only a sympathetic ear." And she went on to explain the tale of her introduction to Ranelagh.

"You have to admit, he's the most heavenly man in London." Rosalind shrugged her dainty shoulders. "Or England, or the world, for that matter."

Alex offered her friend a sardonic glance. "Thank you for the discouragement."

"Forgive me, dear, but he
is
lovely."

"And he knows it and I don't wish to become an afternoon of amusement for him."

"Would you like it better if it were more than an afternoon?"

"No. I would prefer not thinking of him at all. He's arrogant and brazenly self-assured and no doubt has never been turned down by a woman in his life."

"So you're the first."

"I meant it facetiously."

"And you've come here to have me bolster your good judgment and caution you to reason."

"Exactly."

"And will that wise counsel suffice?"

Alex exhaled softly. "Perhaps if you're with me day and night," she muttered.

Rosalind's pale brows rose. "He's said to have that effect on women. In fact, Allison still trembles at the mention of his name, and her stories of his prowess are quite—unbelievable."

"And it annoys me immeasurably that I'm feeling as beguiled as all the mindless Allisons he amuses himself with—and don't look at me like that… you know Allison prides herself on
never
having read a book."

"While in contrast to Ranelagh's host of houris, you wish your intellect to be in control of your desires."

"I insist on it."

"Is it working?"

Alex shoved her teaspoon around on the embroidered linen cloth for a lengthy time before she looked up. "No."

"So the question becomes—what are you going to do?"

"I absolutely refuse to fall into his arms." She glared at her friend. "Do you understand? I won't."

"Fine. Are there matters of degree, then?"

"About what?"

"About falling into his arms. Would you fall, say, after a certain duration, or never in a million years?"