Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

He shot a glance toward the door, as if he might curtail impending customers by will alone.

“Sugar?”

It took him a second to reply, distracted as he was by his imagination racing full tilt. “Yes, please,” he said, crossing his legs to conceal his erection. “Four.”

Her brows rose in surprise, but she only said, “Milk?” rather than what she was thinking.

“Half milk, please, if it’s not too late.”

She glanced at him and smiled. “You don’t actually drink tea, do you?”

He smiled back. “I do on occasion.”

“When you’re trying to please some woman.”

He grinned. “Yes, mostly then.”

“I could find you some liquor, I suppose.” But even as she spoke, she realized how she’d compromised herself and quickly added, “Actually, I can’t.”

“Tea’s fine,” he murmured, as if he hadn’t noticed her brief moment of unintentional goodwill.

She tried not to be overly mindful of how he casually lounged in her chair as if he sat there often, nor how splendid he looked in his beige linen suit-powerful, virile male outfitted in gentlemen’s finery. And yet the brute animal remained beneath the veneer, London’s best tailors unable to trivialize the underlying brawn and muscle. In contrast-strangely perhaps, given his reputation for vice-he had the look of some troubadour of old as well with his dark, ruffled hair curling over his collar, his grey eyes revealing a hint of soulfulness, his sensual mouth eminently kissable.

She had to admit he was incredibly attractive.

She had forgotten what it felt like to be enticed.

But she knew better than to succumb to Groveland’s much-heralded seductive skills, and when she carried over two teacups and handed him his, she was careful not to meet his gaze.

Infamous he might be, but she was not, she noted in cautionary restraint, sitting down across from him and taking a sip of tea.

“When I first saw you, you reminded me of a Pre-Raphaelite portrait.” Fitz smiled over the rim of his teacup. “You hear that often, I expect.”

“I admit, I do. It’s my hair, I think.”

“And your eyes and nose. I own several of their paintings-Rossetti and Millais in particular. The similarities between you and their models are quite remarkable.”

“You own Rossetti and Millais?” She couldn’t quite keep the shock from her voice. She’d not expected him to be a patron of the arts-other than for paintings of nudes, perhaps. And nudes were not either artist’s speciality.

“You sound surprised.”

“Your reputation is for other things.”

“That’s because gossip is by definition about other things,” he noted with a faint smile. “Scandal attracts more interest than cultural endeavors.”

“And you’re engaged in cultural endeavors?”

He laughed. “I’m pleased to see you’re not carping by nature. I know women who could seriously outrival that arch look of yours.”

“From all reports you know women who can do most anything.”

“While you’re a country mouse, bereft of feminine artifice,” he sardonically countered.

“Feminine artifice is beyond my scope. As for the country mouse, once perhaps I was,” she returned with a rueful smile. “But life and untoward circumstances intervene and alter one’s character whether one likes it or not.”

“Your husband’s gambling, for instance.”

She frowned. “You overstep, Groveland.”

“My apologies. So you became a managing woman,” he noted with a lifted brow.

She knew what he meant; she also knew a managing woman was not a charitable term. “Maybe I did,” she said, though because she had neither the inclination nor the resources to take on the idle role of society belle. “By necessity in the beginning and now by choice.” She smiled. “I’m not of your world, Groveland, nor do I aspire to that life.”

“You endorse socialist principles?” He didn’t care, but he enjoyed watching her, and to that purpose, he asked questions.

“I endorse helping those less fortunate. Call it what you like.”

“We all help those less fortunate.”

“If by we you mean those of your class, I beg to differ with you. There are nobles who have run their tenants off their land without a qualm, and others who live off the labor of their crofters without offering them a living wage.” She lifted her brows. “Do you want me to go on? The disparities between rich and poor are comprehensive and deplorable.”

“My tenants are well cared for and well paid.”

“Good for you.”

Her gaze had turned heated and not in a way that would advance either his business or personal desires. “Tell me what books your customers favor most. I expect there are certain subjects that sell better than others.”

How incredibly urbane he was, shifting facilely from the contentious issue of the poor to an innocuous topic without so much as a flicker of a pause. Understanding that she wasn’t going to humanize the aristocratic class with a few pithy comments to Groveland, she replied with equal civility. “Travel books are most popular, I suppose.” She dared not tell him the truth: erotica sold best.

“If you allowed me to purchase your store, you could travel wherever you liked.”

“My bookstore is earning a good return. I may soon travel without your money.”

“Soon?”

Good Lord, he was quick-witted. “My profits are increasing nicely.”

“I, on the other hand, could make you financially independent immediately. Twenty thousand would give you considerable independence.”

Good God! Twenty thousand! That’s three times his barrister’s last offer! Clearly, he is serious! She drew in a small sustaining breath, then set down her teacup, conscious that his cool gaze was scrutinizing her closely. “Your Grace, I don’t wish to lead you on,” she said, knowing she was perhaps being illogical, but allowing her heart to rule. “As I’ve already informed your many surrogates, I have no wish to sell. The bookstore is more than a profitable business; it’s my home and my passion-particularly with reference to my small charities. Helping others offers me enormous pleasure and a sense of fulfillment I’m not sure you’d understand. I’m sorry to be a hindrance to your plans, but I’m quite determined to stay here.”

“You only paid three thousand for the store,” Fitz pointed out, logical when she was not. “With twenty thousand, you could buy another store, do more charitable works, indulge your interest in travel. And in all candor,” he gently noted, setting down his teacup, “your property stands in the way of my project.”

A flush of anger instantly colored her cheeks. “Your project? What about mine?”

He frowned. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“I could say the same of you.”

“Do you realize you’re obstructing a major urban enterprise?”

“Your enterprise, you mean.”

“Of course that’s what I mean,” he irritably replied. “This little bookstore of yours could be anywhere; it doesn’t have to be on this particular corner.”

“I happen to like this particular corner.” Her voice had taken on the same contentious tone as his. “This is my home, Groveland. What if I asked you to sell Groveland House? Would you mind?”

“That’s different,” he brusquely retorted.

“Because it’s yours, you mean, and you’re rich as Croesus and you always get what you want!” Her voice had taken on a strident tone.

“I don’t,” he gruffly returned. “You’re quite wrong.” If I always got whatever I wanted, I would have had a different father and a different childhood. A normal one.

“Then you won’t find it so unusual when you don’t get my store!”

“It’s incomprehensible that you’d cut off your nose to spite your face,” he coldly rebuked. “I’m offering you twenty thousand for a store that’s worth three.”

“We disagree on what it’s worth,” she answered as coldly.

“You want more?” he said very, very softly. The woman had the instincts of a highwayman.

“Everything isn’t about money, Groveland!” How dare he speak to her in that accusing tone. “In fact, the things that truly matter are never about money! Not that someone like you could possibly understand! Now, do me a favor! Get out and leave me alone! Permanently!”

He was surprised at the degree of anger her tirade generated. Every muscle in his body was taut with rage. “There’s nothing I can say to change your mind? ” Twenty thousand was a goddamned fortune and she knew it.

“Not a thing!” Hot, bellicose words.

He was utterly still save for a muscle that twitched over his stark cheekbone. “I could make your life exceedingly difficult,” he said, his voice soft with menace.

She sat back in shock. “Are you threatening me?”

Pushing himself upright in his chair, he leaned forward slightly, the devil glowing in his eyes. “I am.”

Her spine went rigid. “Do what you will,” she snapped, furious at his arrogance. “I’m not selling!”

He came to his feet in a powerful surge. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he growled, towering over her.

“On the contrary,” she rebuked, looking up at him, her gaze flame hot, “I know very well who I’m dealing with! A spoiled, self-indulgent debauchee who’s never worked a day in his life or cared about anyone but himself! But I am not intimidated by your wealth and power! I’m here and I’m staying!” As if empowered by her heated words, she rose to her feet in a flash and jabbed her finger into the fine silk jacquard of his waistcoat. “Now, get out!”

He grabbed her wrist in a viselike grip. “You unmitigated bitch.”

She gasped in pain.

His fingers tightened for a flashing moment, then he abruptly released her and bending down so their eyes were level, whispered, fierce and low, “They say your husband jumped. Now I know why.”

She slapped him so hard, a stabbing pain shot down her arm.

He almost slapped her back but caught himself just short of her face. “This isn’t over,” he snarled, letting his hand drop. Turning, he strode away, nearly knocking over a rotund, middle-aged woman coming through the door.

“My goodness!” Mrs. Beecham murmured as soon as the duke slammed shut the shop door. “Was that the celebrated Duke of Groveland?”

“Yes.” With considerable effort Rosalind overcame the fury in her voice, the single word escaping in a sibilant hiss.

Mrs. Beecham was staring out the window at Groveland’s swiftly retreating form. “Can you imagine a man of his consequence coming into your little store?” she exclaimed in wonder. “Do you think he might return? I do so wish he might. He is quite the eligible party, my dear. I do hope you were on your best behavior with such a superior person.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Beecham. He is most unusual,” Rosalind said, curbing her inclination to describe his character in vile, graphic detail.

“Isn’t he just! Rich, handsome, with a distinguished, ancient title-and single, my dear. Even dukes marry beneath them on occasion. Did he seem taken with you? Perhaps even the slightest bit?” she queried, breathlessly.

“I didn’t detect that sort of interest, Mrs. Beecham,” Rosalind muttered.

Rosalind’s sarcasm wasted on her, Mrs. Beecham said with an insinuating little wink, “Well, if he returns, I’d suggest you put yourself out to please him. You have to think of your future, my dear. You’re out of mourning now, and you’re not getting any younger.”

“I’m sure Groveland is quite busy with the revels of fashionable society. I have no expectations, Mrs. Beecham-none at all. Now, let me show you the new novels that arrived yesterday. Mrs. Thornhill has written a most delightful story and I know she’s one of your favorites.”

After Groveland’s spiteful threats the last person she wished to discuss was his eminence, the most odious, hateful man in England!

WHILE GUIDING MRS. Beecham to the new novels, Rosalind only half listened to the woman’s chatter, planning instead how best to defend herself against Groveland’s attack-which would surely come.

He’d turned out to be the exact spoiled, arrogant aristocrat she’d expected. Quick-tempered when rebuffed, indifferent to all but his own wishes, intent on riding roughshod over anyone who stood in his way.

But she would not be intimidated.

She owned her building; he could not dislodge her.

No matter what.

STRIDING SWIFTLY DOWN Bond Street toward Piccadilly, Fitz was currently focused on that what. And the mood he was in, the Monckton Row project wasn’t even a consideration.

Retaliation was foremost in his mind.

And winning against the insufferable Mrs. St. Vincent!

He cautioned himself to calm as he quickly made his way toward Hutchinson’s office, but with his temper in high dudgeon, issues of reason and restraint were largely nullified. All he could think about was triumphing over the hot-tempered, unreasonable, defiant bitch.