Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

Rosalind grimaced. “That’s exactly why Groveland holds no interest for me; he’s a complete libertine. Even if I chose to divert myself as you put it, I’d prefer my partner remember my name. I’m sure the women in Groveland’s life are no more than a nameless blur.”

“Who cares if he remembers your name if the sex is memorable. It’s not about conversation, darling, but about pleasure. But I’ll say no more. I just think you should consider adding sexual satisfaction to your life. Widowhood isn’t healthy.”

Rosalind smiled. “So we’re speaking about my health now?”

Sofia pouted prettily. “Fine, ridicule me if you wish, but I’d rather get my exercise from orgasms than a walk in Hyde Park.”

“Amorous entertainments are quite wonderful I don’t doubt. But I’m perfectly satisfied with my life. And I’m too busy anyway.”

“You really should think about taking a holiday.” Sofia smiled. “Maybe you’d meet someone at the seashore.”

Rosalind laughed. “You’re certainly persistent, but who would take care of my store? The fairies? And you should talk. I haven’t seen you on holiday lately.”

“Touchй. Perhaps we’re both obsessed. Now that my work is selling, I want to paint even more. I have money for supplies for the first time in my life, for canvas and brushes, good ones. And for the best paints.”

“Success couldn’t come to a more deserving person,” Rosalind said with a warm smile. Sofia had first approached her about showing her work two years ago, and together the women had contrived to bring not only Sofia’s work but also that of several other female artists into the public arena. Eventually, even the critics-who generally supported conservative rather than progressive trends-began to review their shows. “And I guarantee your new landscapes will all sell within the week. They’re absolutely gorgeous.” Coming to her feet, Rosalind picked up Sofia’s newest painting. “Let’s put this in a place of honor on the back wall so everyone will see it first on entering the gallery.”

“It is rather nice if I do say so myself; it’s Augustus’s backyard,” Sofia remarked, following Rosalind as she made her way toward the back of the store, and temporarily abandoning the subject of Rosalind’s overlong celibacy. It was a long-standing topic of conversation between them anyway. “The man is the most glorious gardener.”

“I agree; your impression of his delphiniums is particularly lush. The color fairly dazzles the eye.”

“And so we shall dazzle the critics tonight,” Sofia playfully declared, moving on to innocuous matters. “I sent notices to all the papers last week.”

Rosalind glanced back over her shoulder. “Perhaps that handsome young art critic from the Times will be here tonight. He seemed to appreciate not only your work but you as well the last time he reviewed our show.”

“We’ll see.” A pretty model before she took up painting, Sofia was familiar with fawning swains. “After Luke’s sullenness of late, I’m not sure I’m inclined to be pleasant to a man.”

“You’ll be in a better mood once all your paintings are sold and you’re a good deal richer.”

Sofia grinned. “Oh yes, money definitely raises my spirits.”

WHILE THE WOMEN were hanging Sofia’s painting, Fitz met with his architect, Ian Williams. Williams was disappointed at the delay in their schedule, but cooperative. Naturally, he would redesign the entrance to the secluded mews he said, but he made it clear to the duke that the character of the private street lined with elegant townhomes would be sadly marred should the bookshop continue to occupy its present site.

“I expect the shop will soon be mine,” Fitz replied soothingly. “But should an alternative be required, I’d like to be prepared.”

“I understand,” Williams said grudgingly, the idea of having to alter his plan disconcerting to his artistic temperament. “Would it help if I showed the lady my designs, Your Grace? If she understood the critical position her store occupies, she might more readily agree to sell.”

“I rather doubt it, but thank you for offering,” Fitz replied. “An optional plan is only a precaution. I fully anticipate being back on schedule within a fortnight.”

“That’s a relief, sir.” The fashionable young architect smiled for the first time since Groveland had entered his office.

“Hutchinson and I are both dealing with the lady. We expect all to be resolved very soon. In the meantime, I’ll rely on your creativity to provide an auxiliary concept-something to distract the eye from the bookstore perhaps. Or shield it in some way. She owns the building but not the pavement. I believe that is mine according to the legal documents.”

Williams grinned. “I could barricade her as it were.”

“Indeed you could.” A ten-foot wall perhaps. “We are agreed then,” the duke more gracefully remarked as he came to his feet.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’ll wish you a good day. Send my secretary a note when the new plans are finished.”

After leaving Williams’s office, Fitz returned home and searched out Stanley. He found him cataloguing recent additions to the library.

Entering the large, well-lit room that had been built by one of his Georgian ancestors and added to by each subsequent generation, and which was now considered one of the finest libraries in England, Fitz approached the desk where Stanley was working. “I have a commission for you,” he crisply said. “I’d like you to go round to Grey’s directly and speak to a Mr. Montgomery.” He paused in his instructions while Stanley reached for a paper and pen. “Tell him I need several little fripperies,” he continued once his secretary’s pen was poised over the paper. “He’ll know what I mean. A few modern pieces, too. The lady’s taste is avant-garde. I’ll give you some inscriptions to bring along. Montgomery will know what to do with those as well.” Having reached the desk, Groveland bent forward, pulled a sheet of paper toward him, took the offered pen, and quickly scribbled several lines. “That should do.” He handed the sheet to Stanley and took a step back. “I’m in the process of wooing Mrs. St. Vincent away from her current address,” he said, smiling faintly.

“For the Monckton Row project.”

Fitz nodded. “She’s the last holdout, as you know. I intend to apologize to her tomorrow, so see that I have the baubles by this evening. The store opens at ten in the morning.” He held up crossed fingers. “You may wish me luck.”

“Good luck, sir. By the way, have you read her late husband’s poetry?”

Having turned to leave, the duke swung back. “No, have you?”

“Yes.”

He met Stanley’s gaze. “And?”

“It’s of a rather maudlin nature, sir. I hear the Queen enjoyed it, which may indicate the audience for that particular style of verse.”

“Old ladies, you mean.”

“And also those of a sensitive nature,” Stanley added with a raised brow.

Fitz’s eyes flared wide for a second. “Don’t say the man was-”

“No, no, sir, I meant a certain tender aesthetic imbues the poetry that perhaps touches a similar delicate vein in those who admire it.”

“Still,” Fitz softly murmured, contemplating another ripe avenue of investigation, “it might not hurt to look into the late Mr. St. Vincent’s amusements.”

“To all accounts, sir, he was the best of husbands.”

“Discounting his gambling habit. You’ve already looked into this?”

“Just a little, sir. I happen to know Marcus Dodd, who was a poet friend of the late Mr. St. Vincent. We were at Eton together.”

“Find out everything you can about St. Vincent. Scandals preferably. We need some means of exerting pressure on the lady. Now, the jewelry in my hands by evening. Understood?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll go to Grey’s immediately.”

“Do you have a particular lady friend?”

The young man blushed. “I’m hopeful, sir.”

“Well, get the young lady some trinket in recompense for all your hard work.”

“You already pay me handsomely, sir.”

“But not handsomely enough to buy jewelry at Grey’s,” Fitz said with a grin. “So buy her something with my blessing, and I’d suggest you add some pretty inscription. Women like flowery sentiments I’ve found.”

FITZ SPENT THE afternoon at Tattersalls buying new bloodstock, followed by drinks and cards at Brooks’s with those of his friends still in town. And despite his activities-all quite normal and unexceptional-images of Mrs. St. Vincent kept looping through his mind. Erotic images of the most lascivious nature that persisted despite every effort to dismiss them.

He should ignore her attraction and his carnal urges. At base, it was probably more about their skirmish over the property-about winning and losing-than anything else.

Women never offered him challenge. That he wished to subdue her was perhaps male instinct at the most primordial level-sex, the ultimate submission. Or primal motive aside, he might simply be reverting to type. Mrs. St. Vincent was beautiful and tantalizing; why wouldn’t he want to fuck her?

The large amount of brandy he’d imbibed may also have contributed to his salacious and urgent desires.

Although, he wasn’t drunk.

He didn’t get drunk.

But that he was increasingly fixated on whether or not the lady was a screamer could not be denied.

About to raise on a winning hand, he abruptly gave into his impulses and set down his cards. “I’m out.”

“Why? It’s still early.” Lord Bedford waved toward the mauve twilight visible through the windows. “The ladies at Madame Rivera’s are barely out of bed. Might as well stay.”

“You can’t leave now, dammit,” Avon muttered. “There’s no one else can match me drink for drink.”

Fitz handed his markers to a flunkey who had materialized at his side. “I have a meeting to attend.”

Everyone at the table stared at him dumbfounded.

“What? Is that so unheard of?”

“It is at this time of day,” Freddie said with a jaundiced glance. “So who’s the lady?”

“No one you know,” Fitz replied, rising to his feet. “I wish you a pleasant evening.”

“Dammit, Monk, tell us her name,” Freddie insisted while a buzz of queries erupted around him: “At least give us a hint, Fitz. She must be bourgeois; everyone is gone from town. Does she have friends? Of course she has friends. Don’t keep the ladies for your eyes only. It’s not fair. Don’t we always share?”

Reticent to his friends’ lively inquisition, Fitz only said, “Fair or not, this lady is for my eyes only.” His brows flickered briefly. “She’s a rare challenge, gentlemen. Need I say more?”

As Fitz walked away, a flurry of conversation echoed in his wake. The Monk always had been more than willing to share his lady loves, his exhibitionist tendencies not only well known but also much admired. In the insulated club world in which the privileged nobles of Fitz’s acquaintance had been raised, making love was often perceived as male sport. And spectators were part of the amusement.

As for a challenge, the rank heresy made them speculate that this female was either illicitly young or some wife locked away by a jealous husband. They couldn’t conceive of any other circumstances that would challenge The Monk’s seductive skills.

Naturally, bets were made as to which was the case.

Immune to his friends’ speculations, intent only on personal gratification, Fitz made his way home. After bathing, he partook of another brandy while his valet helped him dress for the evening.

“The dowager duchess will be in town tomorrow, sir,” Darby said, holding out a fine cambric shirt. “On the eleven o’clock train.”

Fitz shot a look over his shoulder. “Are you sure? I thought she was in Paris.” Setting down his glass, he slid his arms through the sleeves and slipped the shirt over his head.

“According to Stanley, Her Grace tired of Lady Montrose’s company. As anyone would, I expect, sir.”

“Agreed. Thank you for the warning,” Fitz noted, sliding the pearl studs into place down his shirtfront. “I’ll make sure to be home for lunch. See that we have those strawberries Mother likes.”

“All is in order, sir.” Darby held out a white silk waistcoat and waited for the duke to tuck his shirt into his trousers. “The cook is busy making the sweets the dowager fancies, the blue suite is being aired, and the dog bed is in place under the windows.”

Fitz buttoned up his trousers. “And little Pansy will run all our lives once again.”

“Indeed, sir,” Darby grumbled as he slipped the waistcoat over Fitz’s shoulders. “It’s more a mop than a dog if you ask me.”

“But Mother’s dear mop,” Fitz said with a grin, fastening the self-covered buttons down the front of his waistcoat. “So we shall do our duty, eh, Darby?”