Susan Johnson - Seduction in Mind

"Soon. The barrister said we can file a breach of promise suit, and there's always Ranelagh's Egyptian collection. Think what we could get for it on the art market." She moved around the end of the bed and sat down beside him. "I missed you today," she whispered, leaning over to kiss his sulky mouth.

"I waited for you all afternoon." His fingers tangled in her hair and he pulled her closer.

"I'm here now…" she murmured, stroking his rising erection.

"Have you ever thought about having children?" Alex asked.

Sam and Alex were looking at a series of watercolors painted by Ingres during his Italian sojourn. They had paused in front of one of small children at play in the shade of an olive tree, the dappled sun illuminating their plump, rosy faces. After a superb dinner and several glasses of wine, Alex found their cherubic looks even more endearing.

Under normal circumstances the viscount would have been alarmed at such a question, but he felt an odd tenderness toward the speaker and he only said, "No, have you?"

"I would have liked children," Alex replied, "but…" Reluctant to discuss the idiosyncracies of her marriages, her voice trailed off.

"It didn't work out."

"No."

"Penelope said she was too young to have children." Even as he spoke, he questioned his sanity. He'd never discussed his wife with anyone.

Alex smiled faintly. "St. Albans said he was too old."

"And Coutts?"

The color rose on her cheeks. "It was a personal matter."

"Ah." He took her hand. "You haven't seen my Turner watercolors yet," he said, mannerly and urbane. From the girls at Hattie's he'd heard Coutts was impotent. "They're so fragile, I have them stored in drawers." He drew her toward a large cabinet in the center of his study.

His well-bred kindness further commended him, when she was already more enchanted than she wished. She tried to repress the affection he inspired. "I first saw Turner's work when I was very young," she told him, forcing herself to speak with composure. "And I thought I was looking at dream landscapes."

"These river views especially remind me of dreams." Sam carefully lifted two sheets from a drawer and set them on the broad cabinet top. "He's been a favorite of mine for years. I bought my first Turner when I was fifteen." He glanced at her empty glass. "Would you like more cognac?"

"I shouldn't." She smiled. "But I will if you will."

Taking his glass from her, he grinned. "If you insist."

"I don't usually drink so much, but it's so peaceful here and the company is superb," she said with a smile, "and I seem to be in the mood for lethargy."

He looked up from pouring. "Are you going to fall asleep on me?"

"On you?"

"Now, there's a concept. Maybe we can look at the rest of the watercolors later." Setting down the bottle and glass, he pushed the cabinet drawer shut.

"If you don't think me too presumptuous."

"Not at all. I'm capable of saying no if I wish."

"Have you ever?"

"Do you think I haven't?"

"Answer the question." She was curious.

"What happens if I do?"

She tipped her head faintly. "You get a reward."

"Ah, then… yes, I have," he replied smoothly.

"Liar."

He looked amused. "I was just ordered to answer. You didn't say you wanted the truth."

"And we both know the truth," she declared. "Which makes this all very bizarre-my being here." She was resting her arms on the high cabinet top in a comfortable lounging pose, the wide sleeves of her gown falling away at her elbows.

"Why? It's a perfectly benign evening." But he knew what she meant by bizarre, because not only had he never had anyone to his Strand apartment, he hadn't dined alone with a lady since the early days of his ill-fated marriage. And she looked as though she belonged in his study in her softly draped gown designed in the Pre-Raphaelite mode-an Elizabethan lady to match his apartment.

"But I've never given in to impulse before-in terms of sex."

"Why not?" The pattern of his sexual life had been essentially based on impulse.

She lifted one shoulder slightly in the merest of deprecating shrugs. "Circumstances perhaps, or cultural pressures for women. Who knows?"

"So young Harry wasn't an impulse?"

"God, no. He was amazingly persistent."

Harry would bear watching, he noted silently, struck by a curious sense of possession. "Well, then this is a change for us both. You see, I've never actually had a lady in for dinner."

She smiled, warmed by his admission. "Did you enjoy it?"

"Profoundly. My compliments on the menu. The food was superb even if it wasn't steak."

"Didn't I tell you I'd expand your experience?"

"Speaking of experiences-let me show you my rooftop garden. And the stars. The lights of the City are less evident in this section of London. You may lie on me there."

"You enjoy this garden alone?"

"Always. It's peaceful and my life is too often-"

"Dissolute?" she offered.

"Filled with people, certainly," he remarked calmly, immune to censure, playful or not. "And not always those I wish to see."

"My studio offers me the same kind of solitude on occasion."

"When you can keep your suitors at bay."

"I suppose. We both can use the hermitage of your rooftop, it seems."

She hadn't disagreed with his assessment of her admirers, he noted with chagrin. But he knew better than to take issue with it, considering the manner of his own entertainments. "Then, I'll take the cognac bottle, you take our glasses, and follow me."

They were almost to the study door, when a servant knocked. After Sam bid him enter, his butler stood stiffly on the threshold. "There is a person here, my lord, with a note for the lady."

"For me?" Alex said, the words half suffocated in her throat.

"What kind of a person?" Sam inquired, the disdain in his butler's voice obvious. Who the hell knew of his apartment, he wondered, and, more particularly, of his guest?

"A rather rough sort of fellow, sir, with a decided limp. Should I have the footmen throw him out?"

"A limp?" Alex breathed, setting the glasses down before she dropped them.

Sam turned to her, taking in her pallor with a small frown. "You needn't see anyone," he said crisply. "Barclay, bring the lady a chair."

"I'm fine, really, there's no need…" Alex drew herself up straighter, as though readying herself for a confrontation. "Show the man in, Barclay. I believe my father sent him."

The viscount choked back his exclamation and nodded to his servant. Brief moments later, a small, wiry man of indeterminate age walked into the room with an awkward gait. He was dressed like a seaman in wide-legged trousers and a striped jersey, and the knit cap pulled low on his forehead hid the color of his hair.

"Good evenin', Miss Alex." The man saluted briefly, his deference plain. "Beggin' your pardon, miss, but your pa sent me."

"I understand, Loucas. You have a note, I believe." There was a possibility some emergency existed, but she rather doubted it. Her father's factotum didn't look agitated in the least.

"Yes, miss." He fumbled in his trouser pocket before extracting a small folded sheet of paper and handing it to her.

"Excuse me," she murmured, opening the seal. She spread the sheet and quickly perused the few lines. A blush began at her throat and slowly moved upward until her face was suffused with pink. Her father had politely informed her of her mother's visit to her studio, the reason for it, and her subsequent displeasure on not finding Alex there. Because he'd promised he'd make inquiries, he went on, he had to keep his word. He expressed his regret at intruding.

"My apologies," she said, turning to Sam, crumpling the note in her hand. "That will be all, Loucas, thank you."

"Yes, miss." With a sharp glance in Sam's direction, he left.

The moment the door closed on their visitor, Sam tossed the cognac bottle toward a settee and asked coolly, "Have we been under surveillance today?"

"No, but I'm absolutely mortified, and I don't blame you in the least for being annoyed." She grimaced. "It's my mother."

"How did she find you?" There was no conciliation in his tone or in his gaze.

"I don't know if you're aware, but my father is Greek consul in London and his merchant business, too, offers him, shall we say, a broad range of contacts in the City. At all levels of society," she quietly added.

"He has informers," Sam said curtly.

"I'm not sure he personally has any, but he has access to them."

"And he wished to find you."

"Actually, my mother did." She shrugged. "She worries, and he must placate her, and if it's any consolation, he apologized for his intrusion."

"Gratifying," Sam conceded, his gaze dubious.

"I do apologize most humbly."

Sam was silent, and her embarrassment deepened. She didn't know what more she could say. That this had never happened before? That her mother considered him unacceptable company for her daughter? That her mother wished her to marry a Greek shipping merchant and have a dozen children?

"Fuck." The soft expletive was pronounced with a distinct scowl.

This probably wasn't the time for levity, Alex reflected, although it was tempting, and she suppressed the impulse to say here or on the rooftop? Instead, she said, "I'm sure you'd rather I leave now. I can find a hackney to take me home."

"Sit." He pointed to a chair.

His brusque tone stripped away any further thought of remorse, and she drew herself up to her full height. "I beg your pardon?"

His gaze seemed to refocus, and his voice when he spoke held its familiar warmth. "Please sit, darling. And forgive my gruffness. I was just wondering if perhaps we should reply to your father's note. Reassure him of your safety."

"Don't joke, Sam"-her voice took on a nervous edge-"you don't know my mother. She'll be on your doorstep in no time."

"We could invite her in for tea," he drawled, his good spirits returning as he realized he was dealing only with a domineering mother. That particular style of female was familiar to him.

"No, we could not! We will most certainly not! We-I… neither of us wants to see my mother over tea or otherwise." She could just imagine the scene. "My mother has very set notions of a woman's role, none of which I conform to. She's particularly offended that I'm her only child who hasn't given her grandchildren, and she reminds me of that deficit several hundred times a year."

"We could work on that," he teased.

"She would prefer a legitimate grandchild," Alex replied tartly, "and I doubt that was a proposal of marriage I just heard."

"And if it were?" Even as he recognized the flippancy of his question, the matter of her answer intrigued him.

"I would refuse, of course, because I prefer a husband who understands what the word marriage means."

"Do I detect a modicum of censure?"

"If modicum means oceans full and mountains high, you'd be close."

"And yet your mother disapproved of your marriages, when both men were clearly stable and reputable."

"How did you know?"

He grinned. "A wild guess. And she disapproves of me, I expect, although, I admit, I'm in awe of the Ionides spy system. I met you just yesterday."

Alex grimaced. "Terrifying, isn't it?"

"It almost makes one consider locking the bedroom door and closing the draperies."

"I'd recommend it."

"So that leaves out the rooftop."

"Really, Sam, you needn't be polite. Loucas's appearance must have been unsettling."

For a man who'd performed sexually before spectators on occasion when the revels at Hattie's turned lewd, a servant delivering a note hardly bore notice. Now that the explanation was clear. "Is it unsettling for you?"

"Of course."

"How much?" And then he smiled and opened his arms and said very low, "Queen Elizabeth actually slept in my bed, and I was thinking you might like to try it out before you leave."

She didn't reply immediately, but the pleasure Sam offered was no longer an unknown, and the tantalizing possibilities in staying overwhelmed prudent behavior. "I suppose," she said, walking toward him, "lying in Queen Elizabeth's bed would be in the nature of a history lesson-an edifying experience."

"I could guarantee the edifying part." He ran his hands down her arms as she reached him. When their fingers touched and twined, he drew her close. "And I can't let you go."

"Nor do I wish to leave… although-"