Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

Good God, he’d never before felt like striking a woman.

Never.

That she was the most perverse and bold-as-brass female he’d ever met was no doubt cause for his aberrant behavior.

As for the circumstances of her husband’s death, after bearing the brunt of Mrs. St. Vincent’s sharp tongue, he thought it rather likely that she had driven the poor man to jump.

Crossing Piccadilly Square, Groveland entered the grand Italianate palazzo that bespoke Hutchinson’s repute as a jurist. Passing through the resplendent marble-columned foyer, he took the stairs at a run and barged into Hutchinson’s office suite like a bull in a china shop. “I’ll see myself in,” he crisply asserted, striding past the law clerks who served as assistants, errand boys, and in this case, gatekeepers.

One of the young men jumped up and courageously blocked Fitz’s path. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but Mr. Hutchinson is with a client.”

“Then get rid of him.”

The young man’s bravery faltered before the duke’s blunt, gimlet-eyed order, but only for a moment. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t do that.”

Fitz gave the young man credit for nerve. “I see. Then could you tell me who Hutchinson is with?” A flicker of amusement gleamed in Groveland’s eyes. “Or would that be too much to ask?”

“No, sir, of course not, sir. Mr. Hutchinson is with the Earl of Somerset.”

Fitz smiled. “Charlie won’t mind if I intrude.” Smoothly sidestepping the young clerk, he strode toward Hutchinson’s office. “I’ll make sure to tell your employer you did your best to stop me,” he tossed back over his shoulder.

Seconds later, he closed the door behind him and smiled at the two men who had turned at his entrance. “Your boy tried to stop me, Hutchinson. Don’t sack him. Morning, Charlie. I’m in a helluva temper and even more of a rush. I need a few moments of Hutchinson’s time.”

Charlie Melville grinned. “Some woman after your skin?”

“On the contrary, some woman needs to be put in her place.”

“Hell, Fitz, I thought you knew how to do that better than anyone. In bed and under you. Ain’t that your way? ”

“Unfortunately, this woman is proving difficult. Have a drink Charlie,” Fitz suggested, nodding at Hutchinson’s drink trolley, the earl known to often drink his breakfast. “This won’t take long. If I could speak with you, Prosper,” he added, indicating a grouping of chairs across the room with a wave of his hand.

As the men took their seats a moment later, Hutchinson said, “I gather Mrs. St. Vincent wasn’t cooperative.”

“She is unspeakably ill-natured and blind to all reason,” Fitz brusquely retorted. “I want her crushed.” Holding up a finger, he smiled thinly. “Let me rephrase that. I want her gone. I don’t care how you do it.”

The barrister suppressed his astonishment; Groveland was not a vindictive man. “While I understand your exasperation,” he cautioned, “as your barrister, I have to remind you that certain legalities must be observed.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Fitz murmured, dismissing Hutchinson’s reservations. “Naturally, she must be dealt with lawfully. But you know as well as I that legalities are, shall we say, flexible.”

“To a point, Your Grace. Only to a point.”

Fitz’s dark brows rose. “That definitive point is what I pay you for, Hutchinson. I expect you to calibrate the boundaries to a nicety.” He blew out a breath. “I’m not unreasonable. I just want it done.”

“I understand. Naturally, I’m at your disposal.”

Hutchinson always had the capacity to calm; maybe it was his voice. Or his steadiness and lack of alarm. Fitz sighed and smiled faintly. “Imperturbable as usual, Hutchinson. What would I do without you?”

Since Groveland was his best client and a decent man as well, the barrister said with utter sincerity, “I could say the same, Your Grace. You have been a most generous patron.”

“This particular problem will tax your ingenuity as well as your patience, I’m afraid. Not that I’m advocating all out war mind you-for now at least.” His gaze narrowed faintly. “It might be helpful to investigate Mrs. St. Vincent’s personal life with an eye to gaining some leverage. Does she have debts, for instance, and if so, who holds the paper? Does she engage in dalliance? Might we unearth some scandal in that regard? Is it possible her family might be useful in persuading her to accept our offer? I’ll leave it to you to find some means to change her mind.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

“I knew I could count on you,” Fitz warmly noted. “In the meantime, I’ll attempt some personal persuasion with regard to Mrs. St. Vincent. I’ll offer her an abject apology for my impetuous temper.” He smiled. “I mentioned her husband’s death in uncivil terms for which I’ll eat humble pie and do penance. Then I’ll ply her with the usual bibelots women fancy and attempt to win her over with my”-he smiled again-“largesse. We shall employ your sticks and my carrots to a, hopefully, successful conclusion. By the way, I offered her twenty thousand.”

Hutchinson wasn’t prone to gasp, but twenty thousand drew a rare gasp from him. “She turned it down?” His barrister’s mind wished complete clarity on such breathtaking moral rectitude.

“Emphatically. And caustically, I might add.” Fitz stood. “I won’t intrude further on your time. Keep me informed of whatever information you unearth. I’m off to speak with Williams now. He might be able to redesign that corner or at least postpone construction as it relates to her bookstore until we acquire it.” Turning, he waved at Somerset. “Thanks, Charlie! Are you hunting at Arlie’s next month?”

“Would I miss it?”

“Then I’ll see you there.”

His mood much improved, the duke leisurely strolled toward St. James’s. Hutchinson’s staff would be fully engaged in obtaining pertinent details on Mrs. St. Vincent’s personal life that could prove useful. She, like everyone, had skeletons in her closet-the husband’s gambling activities, for one. And with a woman of Mrs. St. Vincent’s arresting beauty, he doubted she lived a chaste life.

While he personally ignored society’s strictures when it came to morals, a woman, particularly one of lesser rank, could not so easily disregard them. Scandal accrued to females of middling rank who engaged in fornication outside the marriage bed. And as he understood it, the husband had been deceased for some time. Surely, in her widowhood, the beautiful, voluptuous Mrs. St. Vincent had been tempted to indulge her passions on occasion.

In fact, had he not detected a moment of prurient interest-however quickly suppressed-this morning over tea?

The thought of which was intriguing. Nor could he completely discount the satisfaction he would experience-beyond the obvious sexual gratification-if he were successful in bringing the lovely Mrs. St. Vincent to bed in the course of his persuasion campaign.

Was she a screamer?

He smiled.

He rather thought she might be.

AT THE SAME time Groveland was contemplating making love to his adversary, the object of his musing was seated across from her friend, Sofia Eastleigh, and explaining in a voice of contained fury, “You can’t imagine the high-handed, barefaced gall of the man! His Grace, the esteemed duke of every profligacy on the face of the earth, said to me with shameless arrogance, ‘Your property stands in the way of my project,’ as if I should instantly capitulate because my bookstore happens to be in his way and his wish is my command! Ha! Never!”

Sofia grinned. “I expect he was angry when he left.”

“Not as angry as I, believe me! If Mrs. Beecham hadn’t come in as he was leaving I would have screamed the heaven’s down around his insolent head! I am so completely disgusted with rich nobles who think they can have anything they want simply because they want it! It’s outrageous! And wrong!”

Sofia had lived too long on her own resources to look askance at wealth of any kind, but she kindly said, “You see the world through your social consciousness, darling. I confess I don’t. Not that I don’t understand policy reforms would offer better lives for the poor. But consider, Groveland is offering to buy you out for a considerable sum.”

“I’m doing very well on my own,” Rosalind said with a contemptuous sniff, reaching for another slice of poppy cake in her frustration.

“You just don’t like men of his ilk. Admit it.”

“Of course I don’t,” Rosalind said through a mouthful of cake. “Why should I when”-she swallowed-“men like Groveland do nothing but make love, gamble, and hunt? What a useless life!”

“Useless he may be in some respects,” Sofia murmured, “but I thought him very charming when I met him at Leighton’s last year.” Unlike Rosalind, Sofia viewed men as utilitarian adjuncts to her life: as lovers, payers of rent, amusing companions over dinner, race track associates when she was flush.

Rosalind scowled. “I suppose he can be altogether charming when he doesn’t want anything of yours!”

“Or anything other than a roll in the hay. Which is his speciality as everyone knows-not precisely hay, of course; I’m sure he prefers more civilized venues for making love.”

“From all accounts he’s not so scrupulous,” Rosalind said haughtily.

“That could be. He was flirting with Flora, Leighton’s model, that day I met him, and everyone knows she’s not averse to offering herself standing up in a corner if a suitor comes bearing gifts or is handsome enough.” Sofia lifted her pale brows. “And you must concede, Groveland is extremely handsome.”

“I don’t care if he’s the handsomest man in the world! Nor do I care if he and Leighton’s model had relations in the middle of Leighton’s studio! His Grace,” Rosalind wrathfully articulated, “is rude, overbearing, brazenly autocratic, and he’s not getting my bookstore!” She reached for another slice of cake.

“Then you win and he loses. And you needn’t spend another second infuriated with him. Nor,” Sofia pointed out with a smile, “eat the entire cake because you’re in a rage.”

Rosalind sighed. “You’re right.” She looked at the slice of cake in her hand, then at the few remaining pieces on the cake plate, and grimaced. “If I keep this up, I’ll look like a horse.”

“Hardly, darling. I could only hope to have your voluptuous curves.”

“Then you might think about eating occasionally. One of these days you’re going to simply float away. While I shall waddle away,” Rosalind said with a grin, putting down the slice of cake. “As for Groveland and his kind, they don’t deserve another moment of my time.” She sat up straighter. “There. I am calm. Calm and in control. My life is agreeable in every way.” She smiled. “I apologize for my rant. You’ve been a dear to listen so patiently.”

“Why shouldn’t I? You’re always willing to hear my laments about Luke and the evils of the Academy?”

“How is he by the way?”

Sofia wrinkled her delicate nose. “As bad as ever.”

“You really must find someone else,” Rosalind insisted with the objective clarity of an uninvolved party.

Sofia smiled ruefully. “Like you found someone other than Edward?”

“He couldn’t help his gambling addiction,” Rosalind murmured.

“He didn’t even try.”

Rosalind made a moue. “I know.”

“And of course you wouldn’t think of divorce.”

“No.” She and Sofia had gone over this ground before. Who would have taken care of Edward had she divorced him? And more to the point, who would have paid for the divorce? “But do consider finding someone who treats you well, darling. You’re so enormously talented. Luke will never be a brilliant painter like you, and he resents your artistic gifts.”

“I wish I could argue the point.” Sofia shrugged. “At least the world is slowly changing. Just think, before long, women might win a place in the greater scheme of things.”

Rosalind smiled. “First we need the vote.”

“True, and yet,” Sofia softly replied, “we have more options than our mothers did.”

“Indeed. My mother has given up her entire life to care for my father. She doesn’t begrudge her role, but I find myself unwilling to play the mute, compliant wife.”

“As if you ever did,” her friend drolly noted.

“Someone had to deal with the day-to-day living. It was not Edward’s strong suit.”

“Maybe it’s time you think about playing the merry widow,” her friend suggested with a sly smile. “You work too hard. You don’t have enough fun.” Sofia winked. “Carnal amusements can be a very satisfying diversion. And while I’m not advocating for Groveland, if you were in the market for a diversion, he’d be certainly high on anyone’s list. His reputation is well deserved according to my friend Annie. She spent Ascot week with him and they never actually saw a race.”