Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

Rosalind dipped her head with ducal grace. “Your apologies are accepted, sir.” She smiled. “It was rather an adventure. And I’m quite unscathed. Hello, my dear,” she said, turning a bland gaze on Fitz. “Thank you for arriving so swiftly.”

“I would have come sooner had I not been in Scotland shooting. Naturally, I apologize for my tardiness.”

“No need. I was indisposed for a very short time.”

The superintendent stepped aside so Rosalind could exit the cell, his concern only that the duke and duchess be gone from his station as quickly as possible and more important, that no scandal accrue to him.

Fitz held out his arm as Rosalind entered the corridor.

She looked up and held his gaze for a potent moment before placing her fingers on his forearm. “How was the shooting? ”

“It could have been better,” he said, moving down the hallway.

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Not as sorry as I was to hear of your difficulties.”

“Pshaw, it was nothing. Don’t give it another thought.”

Her fingers were digging into his arm, and if looks could kill, he would have been dead. But she carried off her role with aplomb, even while they were in the carriage with Hutchinson. It was only when they deposited the barrister at his home that she turned on Fitz, her eyes flashing with anger.

“Aren’t you going to say it wasn’t you?” she demanded acidly.

“Would it do any good? ”

“Not in the least.” Quickly rising, she shifted to the opposite seat where Hutchinson had been sitting and coldly said, “Take me home.”

“Just for the record I didn’t order the arrest. It was a mistake.” He knew better than to offer the most bland demur. He had no real defense in any event.

“But a mistake you had a hand in,” she snapped. “You were the one who told them where to find the manuscripts, weren’t you? ”

“No.” A literal if not complete truth.

“You bloody liar,” she hissed. “No one else has been in my bedroom.”

This wasn’t the time to take heart at such news, but nevertheless he did, pleased that he alone had breached the citadel. Equally pleased after his lamentable time in Scotland that she was within reach, regardless her temper. “I’d like to make amends if you’d let me,” he quietly said. “You need but tell me what to do.”

She stared at him. “You’re unbelievable! You think this some mild outrage that can be smoothed over with a bloody apology? You think my arrest is some mere bagatelle that won’t cause a ripple in my life, that I can put this humiliation behind me with ease!” Her voice had risen, a flush colored her cheeks. “How dare you make light of this!”

“I’m not,” he muttered, willing to play the penitent for the wrong done Rosalind. “I understand the delicacy of the situation.”

“Delicacy! We’re not talking about some social gaffe! My door broken down and police swarming into my store is not a delicate situation!”

“I understand,” he said, submitting with grace. “I’ll make it up to you. Tell me what you want.”

She glared at him. “How typical. Everyone’s for sale, aren’t they, you bastard? Maybe in your world they are, but not in mine. Do me a favor,” she spat out. “From now on stay away from me and my store.”

“What if I don’t? Are you going to call the police? ” He was struggling to control his temper. Groveling wasn’t his strong suit. Nor did women ordinarily scream at him.

“Good Lord, Groveland,” Rosalind waspishly said, “surely you have any number of other ladies you can harass. Kindly acquit me of your attentions.”

“I don’t recall you being particularly discontent with my attentions in the past,” he drawled. Scotland had been disagreeable and unsatisfactory from every angle. He hadn’t slept much in over a week. And Rosalind’s damned arrest hadn’t been his fault exclusively or at all, he churlishly decided, since he’d never actually given the order to proceed.

“You’d be surprised what an arrest and a night in a foul jail can do to a sexual relationship,” she derisively noted. “You might want to think about excising that little subtlety from your future seductions.”

Bitch, he thought, although he couldn’t fault her logic. “Look,” he softly said, making a conscious effort to reduce the heated rhetoric, “none of this should have happened. I’m sorry it did. And I understand you’re angry”-he paused at her indignant snort, counted quickly to ten, then continued in a purposefully mild tone-“but I’m quite willing to do anything to atone for the wrong that’s been done you. I won’t press you anymore to sell your store. How would that be? ” It was a huge concession, a very expensive one.

“Don’t do me any bloody favors. For your information, I wouldn’t sell to you if I was penniless and starving. Now, I’m done talking,” she tartly added. “Take me home.”

“And if I don’t? ” Equally frustrated, unequipped as well to deal with resistance when he’d encountered little to none since assuming the title at seventeen, he reverted to type. “What are you going to do about it? ”

“I’ll jump from this carriage and walk home. Now give your driver directions or I’ll jump.”

Reaching out, he smoothly locked both doors, then leaned back in his seat. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Her nostrils flared. “This is exactly why we don’t suit. I don’t take orders either.”

“Sometimes you do.”

She braced her hands on the seat and lifted her chin in defiance. “I am vastly uninterested in sex with you, you ruthless bastard! If you dare touch me, I’ll fight you to my last breath.”

Astonished at the bitterness in her voice, he took pause. While he’d never yet been unable to talk his way into a lady’s good graces, he’d never had a woman thrown in jail before. He had to admit, it was an extreme event; perhaps different skills were required. “Relax,” he calmly said. “I’m not looking for a fight.”

“I’m relieved.” Sarcasm dripped from every icy syllable.

Reaching up, he rapped on the carriage roof. “Bruton Street Books,” he called out.

The remainder of the journey passed in silence.

Seated in the corner, her scowling gaze focused on the scene outside, Rosalind stewed and silently condemned Fitz to the everlasting fires of hell.

Lounging in the opposite corner, Fitz closed his eyes and dozed off.

Damn him, she fumed, even more furious on hearing his soft snores. Isn’t that just like the shameless, arrogant autocrat. Nothing fazes him because he is untouchable. The world bends to his will.

The world well might, but she never would. Never, never, never, she vowed.

As the carriage stopped at her bookstore, Fitz came awake and sliding upright, unlocked the door. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call,” he offered, all well-mannered grace-as if she’d not spent the previous night in a filthy jail cell because of him, as if they hadn’t just quarreled, as if she’d not coldly repudiated his attempts to apologize.

“Don’t hold your breath,” she snapped.

“As you wish,” he murmured, not saying more since the driver had jumped down, opened the door, lowered the step, and was waiting to help her alight.

Rosalind shot him a last irate look, stepped from the carriage, and was immediately overcome by a fresh wave of rage. Her shattered front door had been replaced, the new door the very image of the former, down to the yellow paint and brass hinges. Damn Fitz and his money and minions who jumped to do his bidding. Had the man ever once been gainsaid in his entire life?

Apparently not-at least to this point, she huffily reflected, entering her store to find an unknown man behind the counter and the shop bustling with customers.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. St. Vincent,” Stanley courteously said in greeting. “Did you enjoy your holiday in the country? ”

Biting down her anger, she answered with equal politesse. “Indeed I did. Thank you for taking over in my absence.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. St. Vincent. Miss Eastleigh is upstairs waiting for you.”

Did nothing fall outside Groveland’s purview, she indignantly brooded as she walked through the store. Next thing she knew, her parents would be coming to visit. Or some long lost childhood friend. Damn his interference!

As she walked into her parlor a few moments later, Sofia jumped to her feet. “Thank God you’re back. Was it gruesome? ”

“Yes, it was. Who’s that man downstairs? ”

“Groveland’s secretary. There’re other servants in the back of the store.”

“Who summoned you? ”

“I didn’t ask his name. A solicitor I’d guess from his appearance and manner. Come sit down. You must be exhausted. He said you’d been arrested.”

“I’m fine now,” Rosalind said, dropping into a chair, profoundly grateful to be home. “Have you been here long? ”

“Since morning.”

Rosalind held Sofia’s gaze. “Who else knows? ”

“No one. Workmen were repairing the door when I arrived at seven, the shop was filled with Groveland’s flunkeys, and the solicitor who brought me here in his carriage explained I alone had been summoned since we were close friends.”

“Christ. Is there anything they don’t know? ”

“It doesn’t seem so. A chef and his helpers brought over food and wine and stocked your larder; some maidservants straightened up the apartment, changed the linens, and took the soiled things away.”

“Damn him,” Rosalind muttered.

“For what precisely if you don’t mind my asking? ”

“I was arrested because of him. Because of my store, I suspect, although we weren’t precisely on good enough speaking terms for me to ask for details. The police took all Edward’s manuscripts from the armoire as well as mine from my desk drawer and no one knew of their location.”

“Except Groveland.”

“Yes, except him.”

“Because he snooped in your bedroom.”

Rosalind scowled. “He’s utterly ruthless when he wants something.”

“Now what? ”

Her expression lightened. “Now I keep my store for certain. He won’t dare press me after what he did to me.”

“How do you know you’re safe if he’s as ruthless as you say? ”

“He tried to apologize-at least at first,” Rosalind explained.

“He did? Hardly his style.” Sofia had been in company with Groveland at enough art events to be aware of his patrician air of command. Not that he was arrogant; rather, he was unaware of dissent since his wishes were largely unchallenged. Or perhaps always unchallenged.

“I wouldn’t know,” Rosalind said with a shrug. “Maybe he’ll change his mind. Not that I care a whit. I had no intention of selling before, and after my recent experience in jail, I certainly won’t now.” She pushed herself out of the comfortable chair, suddenly feeling weary to the bone. “I need a bath and some sleep. I didn’t dare sit down all night. The place was squalid.”

“I’ll make you tea and a plate of some of Groveland’s chef’s delicacies.”

“If I wasn’t so hungry, I’d spurn his food, but I haven’t eaten for a very long time.”

“Go, take your bath. I’ll stay with you tonight.”

“Thank you.” Rosalind offered her friend a grateful smile. “I’m exhausted.”

After Rosalind bathed, Sofia served her dinner in bed and listened to her postmortem of the frightening events. “He’s exactly what I thought he was from the first: a selfish, uncompromising tyrant who simply wants what he wants without regard for anyone else,” she bitterly finished. “I shouldn’t have been foolish enough to have been taken in by his charm.”

“At the risk of resorting to a platitude, all’s well that ends well. You’re free, you have your store,” Sofia pointed out, not for the first time. In the interval before she fell into an exhausted sleep, Rosalind gave voice to the full tumult of her feelings, as if the horrific hours she’d recently survived required exorcizing. And more than once, she raged at Fitz for his role in her vile confinement. Then, as if her psyche was completely without judgment, after she dozed off, she dreamt of him.

Resting in a chair by the bed, Sofia heard Rosalind murmur Fitz’s name in her sleep, with fondness and yearning. Not that her wistful longings were likely to prosper, Sofia decided, knowing Groveland’s reputation for serial dalliance. But at least there was a possibility that Rosalind would no longer have to defend her store from his covetous ambitions. With luck, Sofia reflected. She wasn’t entirely sure Groveland would give up so easily.

FITZ SHOULD HAVE slept that night. Particularly since he’d slept little since leaving London-what was supposed to have been a holiday in Scotland having turned into a period of sleeplessness and drink. He’d hunted very little, indifferent to the sport for the first time in his life. Indifferent to everything for the first time in his life.