Seduction in Mind (3 page)

Alex shifted uncomfortably, tapped her fingers on the gilded chair arm, inhaled, exhaled, was silent for several moments more. "I'm not sure about the million years," she said finally.

"Ah." Rosalind scrutinized her friend with a benevolent gaze. "Then some measure of compromise will be required."

"How do you possibly compromise with a man like that? Women have been flinging themselves at him his entire life."

"But you haven't."

"Not yet."

Rosalind leaned back on the settee, her expression amused. "That would be a first, wouldn't it? But as I see it, you and Ranelagh are very much alike." At Alex's instant pique, she added, "Honestly, darling, you have to admit, men have been flinging themselves at you with similar abandon ever since you left the schoolroom. Not that you've taken up with many of them, but they've certainly tried. So, do you think you simply dislike Ranelagh's audacity? Or would you prefer he beg?"

"I would prefer not having met him. I don't like feeling this way… as though I were simultaneously breathless with longing and in peril."

"Then refuse him."

"I intend to. I'm probably making too much of a casual meeting anyway. Ranelagh, no doubt, propositions women every day."

"No doubt. Are you feeling better now that you've reconciled sense and sensibility?"

Alex laughed quietly. "Marginally, at least. He
is
spectacularly male, unfortunately."

"And you've been avoiding men since Leon insisted you marry him not long ago."

"Which is the problem, I tell myself. Ranelagh's handsomeness is only incidental to my frustrated sexual urges."

"Certainly frustration
could be
a consideration," Rosalind said kindly.

"At the moment, I should be entirely too busy to be frustrated," Alex returned. "Both Leighton and Alma-Tadema have appealed to my goodwill, and in a weak moment I agreed to pose for them—when my schedule is already overcommitted." She glanced at the clock. "Which reminds me, I must be at Alma-Tadema's by six. Larry's working on a painting in which evening shadows are required."

"A painting that will garner all the usual praise of both his skills and your beauty. At times, I envy you your freedom. Sidney would never let me be so modern, even though everyone is nominally discreet."

"You're not as insistent as I, darling."

"Nor independently wealthy."

Alex grinned. "I won't argue the advantages of my fortune. I'm well aware I'm allowed liberties that only wealth bestows. And there are advantages as well to being an artist. One's eccentricities are looked upon with a certain tolerance."

"And it pleases you to pose nude."

"On occasion. If I like the artist and the work. I paint nudes as well. What artist wouldn't?" She rose with a smile. "Thank you for letting me talk. I'm feeling quite in control of my feelings once again. And Larry always has all the latest gossip. My evening should be amusing."

"You're boring the hell out of me," Eddie grumbled, reaching for the brandy bottle at his elbow.

Sam looked up from his putt. "Go to the Marlborough Club yourself."

"I might." Refilling his glass, the earl lifted it in salute. "As soon as I finish this bottle."

"After you finish that bottle, you'll be passed out on my couch," the viscount said, watching the ball roll into the cup on the putting green he'd had installed in his conservatory.

"You don't miss a night out as a rule," Eddie remonstrated. "Did the merry widow's refusal incapacitate you?"

"
Au contraire
," Ranelagh replied, positioning another ball with his golf club. "I'm feeling first rate. And I expect she's in high mettle as well."

"She turned you down, Sam."

"But she didn't want to." He softly swung his club, striking the ball with exquisite restraint.

"And you can tell."

The viscount half smiled. "I could feel it."

"So sure…"

"Yes."

"And you're saving yourself for her now?"

"Dammit, Eddie, if you want to go, go. I don't feel like fucking anyone right now, and I drank enough last night to last me a week."

"Since when haven't you felt like fucking someone?" his friend asked, his gaze measured.

"What the hell are you insinuating?"

"That you fancy the voluptuous Miss Ionides with more than your usual casual disregard."

"After meeting her for ten minutes?" Ranelagh snorted. "You're drunk."

"And you're putting golf balls at seven o'clock when you're never even home at seven."

Sam tossed his club aside. "Let's go."

"Are you going out like that?"

The viscount offered his friend a narrowed glance. "None of the girls at Hattie's will care."

"True," Eddie muttered, heaving himself up from the leather-covered couch. "But don't do that to me again. It scares the hell out of me."

Sam was shrugging into his jacket. "Do what?"

"Change the pattern of our dissolute lives. If you can be touched by cupid's arrow, then no man's safe. And that's bloody frightening."

"Rest assured that after Penelope, I'm forever immune to cupid's arrow," Sam drawled. "Marriage doesn't suit me. As for love—I haven't a clue."

"I'll drink to that," Eddie toasted, snatching up the brandy bottle as Sam moved toward the door.

But by chance, their route took them past the studio of Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, an artist as celebrated as Leighton, and a small carriage parked at the curb caught Sam's eye. He recognized it from Leighton's. Knocking for his driver to stop, he turned to Eddie. "I'll meet you at Hattie's in a few minutes."

"Why are you getting out here?"

"I need some air."

"Why?"

Sam was already swinging down from his carriage. "No special reason," he said, pushing the door shut. "I'll see you in ten minutes." Glancing up, he gave instructions to his driver.

"You're sure now?" Eddie looked perplexed.

"You'll be entertained at Hattie's with or without me, but I should be there shortly."

"You're acting very strangely tonight."

"You're drunk," Sam replied pleasantly, and nodded to his driver.

The carriage pulled away.

But Eddie was right, Sam realized as he stood on the curb before the commanding entrance to Alma-Tadema's pseudo-Pompeian palace. He was strangely out of sorts tonight, or curiously ruminative, or, more precisely, in rut for the tantalizing little bitch who had turned him down that afternoon. And he wondered for a moment if his vanity was involved, if he wanted her simply because she'd said no.

But he wasn't so crass, nor was he vain. Although he had no explanation for his motivation other than lust. Or none he could comfortably accept. So lust it was that made him stop—and propelled him toward the door.

Alma-Tadema was feted in society; they'd met before, but Sam had never crossed the threshold of his home. Taking note of the dearth of other carriages, he wondered if the artist's wife was out of town and he might be intruding on a tête-à-tête. His consideration was fleeting, however. He really didn't care.

Unconsciously straightening his cravat, he walked to the huge double doors, lifted the polished brass lion's-head knocker, and let it drop.

A young servant girl came to the door. No one so pretentious as Leighton's Kemp was there to greet Alma-Tadema's guests. Her curtsy was unpolished, her face scrubbed and rosy, and Sam decided that in spite of his wealth, Sir Lawrence was considerably more natural a man than the head of the Royal Academy.

He asked to see her master, and when the maid inquired whom she should say was calling, Sam said, "If you don't mind, I'd like to surprise him." Offering her a warm smile, he placed a twenty-pound note on her palm, winked, and added, "Miss Ionides and I are friends."

She didn't hesitate; the sum represented several months' salary. "Right up the stairs, sir, and turn to your left," she directed, taking the hat and gloves Sam handed her. "His studio be those double doors at the end of the hall."

When Sam reached the doors, one of them was ajar, revealing a portion of the studio and a fascinating view that brought his erection surging to life. A golden twilight bathed the room, gilding the naked flesh of the woman who had consumed his thoughts. Miss Ionides was languorously disposed on a large sable rug that was draped over a running course of marble plinths. The backdrop represented the partial ruins of a Roman temple—Alma-Tadema's speciality in history painting, as was his virtuoso depiction of female flesh. An alabaster bowl of white lilies at the lady's feet was no doubt meant to be metaphorical, or perhaps paradoxical, because this was no innocent maiden lying before him.