Susan Johnson - Seduction in Mind

"So that's why Charles won't speak to you anymore."

The viscount shrugged. "He never did anyway."

Alexandra didn't have another appointment. Rather, she'd felt a desperate need to escape.

Notwithstanding her disapproval of men like Ranelagh, something alarming had happened a few moments ago, and try as she might to disparage the viscount's blatant sexual magnetism and his infamous use of it, she'd found herself not only drawn to him but, more terrifying, tempted. She drew in a calming breath, her emotions in chaos, her nerves on edge, an unusual agitation gripping her senses. Not only were all the stories of the viscount's allure true, the man was fully aware of the effect he had on women-damn him.

Intent on repressing her alarming reaction to their meeting, she reminded herself he was just another man and she wasn't a missish young girl whose head could be turned by a seductive glance and a charming smile. Nor was she some tart who could be bluntly propositioned as though he had but to nod his handsome head and she would fall into his bed.

In spite of the fact that seductive power was his hallmark and he was notorious for inspiring carnal longing in legions of women, she didn't intend to be added to his harem of eager and willing females. She'd spent too many years struggling against conformity, trying to find a role outside the societal standards for women of her class, and she relished her hard-won independence. Surely, she was strong enough to resist a libertine no matter how sinfully handsome or celebrated his sexual expertise.

Regardless of the fact that she'd been celibate since a recent disastrous affair with a man who didn't understand the meaning of no.

Reason, perhaps, for her current agitation.

But after Leon, she'd vowed to be more prudent in her choices.

And Ranelagh would be not only imprudent but-if his conduct at Leighton's was any evidence-impudent as well.

Inexhaustible in bed, however, if rumor were true, a devilish voice inside her head reminded her.

She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, as though she might restrain her carnal urges with so slight a gesture. Impossible, of course, with the stark images of Ranelagh lodged in her brain-his tantalizing smile, the boldness of his glance, the overwhelming sense of power he evoked. He was tall, dark, breath-takingly handsome at close range, and all honed muscle and brute strength beneath the gloss of his fine tailoring. She'd never met such a man before, his presence one of sheer physical force. The purity of his finely modeled features only enhanced his image of physical perfection, while his brooding black eyes and sensual mouth suggested impassioned sensibilities beneath the consummate male animal.

And his hands were so very large-which meant-

Good God-she was carrying on like an infatuated adolescent.

Perhaps she should spend a few hours with young Harry and assuage her sexual urges, she tersely thought; he was always so grateful for her company. But boyish gratitude didn't hold much appeal when Ranelagh's virile maleness was in the forefront of her brain. Nor did young Harry's sweetness prevail over the unabashed impatience in Ranelagh's eyes.

"No!" she exclaimed, the sound of her voice shocking in the confined space of her carriage, as was the flagrant extent of her desire.

She really, really needed to talk to Rosalind. Her friend was always the voice of reason… or at least one of caution to her rash impulses.

Lady Ormand was entertaining at tea and Alex had to sit through a long, tedious hour before the last guest finally departed. "How do you stand it?" Alex exclaimed as the footman closed the door on the Viscountess Compton. "The conversation was solely of frocks and gowns. Do those women have a life beyond visiting their modiste?"

"Gwendolyn brought Emily and May today since they're in town, and you know how-"

"Shallow they are?"

Her friend smiled. "Indeed. But consider, you learned how to get Brussels lace for half price from Honitons."

"If I'd been listening after the first five minutes, I might have."

"I commend you for your courtesy, then. I doubt they noticed. So tell me, darling, what brought you here at such a dangerous time of day? I know how you dislike teatime."

"I needed your counsel or advice"-Alex paused-"or perhaps only a sympathetic ear." And she went on to explain the tale of her introduction to Ranelagh.

"You have to admit, he's the most heavenly man in London." Rosalind shrugged her dainty shoulders. "Or England, or the world, for that matter."

Alex offered her friend a sardonic glance. "Thank you for the discouragement."

"Forgive me, dear, but he is lovely."

"And he knows it and I don't wish to become an afternoon of amusement for him."

"Would you like it better if it were more than an afternoon?"

"No. I would prefer not thinking of him at all. He's arrogant and brazenly self-assured and no doubt has never been turned down by a woman in his life."

"So you're the first."

"I meant it facetiously."

"And you've come here to have me bolster your good judgment and caution you to reason."

"Exactly."

"And will that wise counsel suffice?"

Alex exhaled softly. "Perhaps if you're with me day and night," she muttered.

Rosalind's pale brows rose. "He's said to have that effect on women. In fact, Allison still trembles at the mention of his name, and her stories of his prowess are quite-unbelievable."

"And it annoys me immeasurably that I'm feeling as beguiled as all the mindless Allisons he amuses himself with-and don't look at me like that… you know Allison prides herself on never having read a book."

"While in contrast to Ranelagh's host of houris, you wish your intellect to be in control of your desires."

"I insist on it."

"Is it working?"

Alex shoved her teaspoon around on the embroidered linen cloth for a lengthy time before she looked up. "No."

"So the question becomes-what are you going to do?"

"I absolutely refuse to fall into his arms." She glared at her friend. "Do you understand? I won't."

"Fine. Are there matters of degree, then?"

"About what?"

"About falling into his arms. Would you fall, say, after a certain duration, or never in a million years?"

Alex shifted uncomfortably, tapped her fingers on the gilded chair arm, inhaled, exhaled, was silent for several moments more. "I'm not sure about the million years," she said finally.

"Ah." Rosalind scrutinized her friend with a benevolent gaze. "Then some measure of compromise will be required."

"How do you possibly compromise with a man like that? Women have been flinging themselves at him his entire life."

"But you haven't."

"Not yet."

Rosalind leaned back on the settee, her expression amused. "That would be a first, wouldn't it? But as I see it, you and Ranelagh are very much alike." At Alex's instant pique, she added, "Honestly, darling, you have to admit, men have been flinging themselves at you with similar abandon ever since you left the schoolroom. Not that you've taken up with many of them, but they've certainly tried. So, do you think you simply dislike Ranelagh's audacity? Or would you prefer he beg?"

"I would prefer not having met him. I don't like feeling this way… as though I were simultaneously breathless with longing and in peril."

"Then refuse him."

"I intend to. I'm probably making too much of a casual meeting anyway. Ranelagh, no doubt, propositions women every day."

"No doubt. Are you feeling better now that you've reconciled sense and sensibility?"

Alex laughed quietly. "Marginally, at least. He is spectacularly male, unfortunately."

"And you've been avoiding men since Leon insisted you marry him not long ago."

"Which is the problem, I tell myself. Ranelagh's handsomeness is only incidental to my frustrated sexual urges."

"Certainly frustration could be a consideration," Rosalind said kindly.

"At the moment, I should be entirely too busy to be frustrated," Alex returned. "Both Leighton and Alma-Tadema have appealed to my goodwill, and in a weak moment I agreed to pose for them-when my schedule is already overcommitted." She glanced at the clock. "Which reminds me, I must be at Alma-Tadema's by six. Larry's working on a painting in which evening shadows are required."

"A painting that will garner all the usual praise of both his skills and your beauty. At times, I envy you your freedom. Sidney would never let me be so modern, even though everyone is nominally discreet."

"You're not as insistent as I, darling."

"Nor independently wealthy."

Alex grinned. "I won't argue the advantages of my fortune. I'm well aware I'm allowed liberties that only wealth bestows. And there are advantages as well to being an artist. One's eccentricities are looked upon with a certain tolerance."

"And it pleases you to pose nude."

"On occasion. If I like the artist and the work. I paint nudes as well. What artist wouldn't?" She rose with a smile. "Thank you for letting me talk. I'm feeling quite in control of my feelings once again. And Larry always has all the latest gossip. My evening should be amusing."

"You're boring the hell out of me," Eddie grumbled, reaching for the brandy bottle at his elbow.

Sam looked up from his putt. "Go to the Marlborough Club yourself."

"I might." Refilling his glass, the earl lifted it in salute. "As soon as I finish this bottle."

"After you finish that bottle, you'll be passed out on my couch," the viscount said, watching the ball roll into the cup on the putting green he'd had installed in his conservatory.

"You don't miss a night out as a rule," Eddie remonstrated. "Did the merry widow's refusal incapacitate you?"

"Au contraire," Ranelagh replied, positioning another ball with his golf club. "I'm feeling first rate. And I expect she's in high mettle as well."

"She turned you down, Sam."

"But she didn't want to." He softly swung his club, striking the ball with exquisite restraint.

"And you can tell."

The viscount half smiled. "I could feel it."

"So sure…"

"Yes."

"And you're saving yourself for her now?"

"Dammit, Eddie, if you want to go, go. I don't feel like fucking anyone right now, and I drank enough last night to last me a week."

"Since when haven't you felt like fucking someone?" his friend asked, his gaze measured.

"What the hell are you insinuating?"

"That you fancy the voluptuous Miss Ionides with more than your usual casual disregard."

"After meeting her for ten minutes?" Ranelagh snorted. "You're drunk."

"And you're putting golf balls at seven o'clock when you're never even home at seven."

Sam tossed his club aside. "Let's go."

"Are you going out like that?"

The viscount offered his friend a narrowed glance. "None of the girls at Hattie's will care."

"True," Eddie muttered, heaving himself up from the leather-covered couch. "But don't do that to me again. It scares the hell out of me."

Sam was shrugging into his jacket. "Do what?"

"Change the pattern of our dissolute lives. If you can be touched by cupid's arrow, then no man's safe. And that's bloody frightening."

"Rest assured that after Penelope, I'm forever immune to cupid's arrow," Sam drawled. "Marriage doesn't suit me. As for love-I haven't a clue."

"I'll drink to that," Eddie toasted, snatching up the brandy bottle as Sam moved toward the door.

But by chance, their route took them past the studio of Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, an artist as celebrated as Leighton, and a small carriage parked at the curb caught Sam's eye. He recognized it from Leighton's. Knocking for his driver to stop, he turned to Eddie. "I'll meet you at Hattie's in a few minutes."

"Why are you getting out here?"

"I need some air."

"Why?"

Sam was already swinging down from his carriage. "No special reason," he said, pushing the door shut. "I'll see you in ten minutes." Glancing up, he gave instructions to his driver.

"You're sure now?" Eddie looked perplexed.

"You'll be entertained at Hattie's with or without me, but I should be there shortly."

"You're acting very strangely tonight."

"You're drunk," Sam replied pleasantly, and nodded to his driver.

The carriage pulled away.

But Eddie was right, Sam realized as he stood on the curb before the commanding entrance to Alma-Tadema's pseudo-Pompeian palace. He was strangely out of sorts tonight, or curiously ruminative, or, more precisely, in rut for the tantalizing little bitch who had turned him down that afternoon. And he wondered for a moment if his vanity was involved, if he wanted her simply because she'd said no.