The building was new, as were most structures in the exclusive Holland Park area. [4] Imaginative new architects were building significant examples of domestic architecture around the original Jacobean mansion at the center of the property. Philip Webb, George Aitchison, William Burges, Richard Norman Shaw, and J. J. Stevenson were all doing their part to contribute to the stature and prominence of the colony of eminent artists and middle-class industrialists, merchants, and bankers who were profiting by the rapidly expanding economy.

Alex's studio was of red brick, and like so many of the new structures had wide and comfortable windows, high-pitched roofs of tile, a gabled facade, and ivy-covered walls that gave it the homey, lived-in look of a country parsonage. And as if a further decorative touch were in order, someone had left a large bouquet of larkspur on the front step.

Harry had been by, Alex realized. He picked bouquets for her from the public parks despite her remonstrances.

"You have an admirer."

"Like you, Ranelagh, more than one," she said, picking up the bouquet.

"Aren't you going to look at the card?"

Cradling the flowers in her arm, she opened the cobalt-blue door. "I doubt it's anyone you know." And Harry's love notes were always lengthy. "Please, come in." Stepping over the threshold, she suddenly stopped. Harry was coming toward her down the hallway.

"Do you like my flowers?" he called out.

"Your admirer has made himself at home, it seems."

Taking note of Ranelagh, Harry's tone turned petulant. "I thought you were going to the races."

"He keeps close watch on you," the viscount drawled.

"And why shouldn't I?" Harry replied heatedly, bristling like a puppy as he stopped before them. "I know her and you don't."

With an insolent gaze Sam surveyed the young man. "If you'd leave, we could become better acquainted."

"Alex, don't!"

"Harry, for heaven's sake. What do you think you're doing?"

"Why don't you get the hell out," Sam said.

"I beg your pardon." Alex shot a scathing look at Ranelagh.

"Do you want him to stay?" A sudden coolness had entered Sam's tone.

"Whether I do or not is my decision, not yours, my lord."

"Well, make up your mind."

Who did he think he was to give ultimatums. "Thank you for the ride home," she said crisply. "I wish you good day."

Sam offered her a stiff bow. "Your servant, ma'am." He turned and walked away.

"How could you, Alex," Harry decried. "Ranelagh is the most libertine man in all of London."

"When I wish your advice, Harry, I'll be sure to ask for it." Her voice was sharp. "And I'll thank you to stay out of my home unless invited. I don't appreciate you interfering in my life."

"He's not good for you, Alex."

"I think I'm old enough to make my own decisions, Harry. Now, if you'd kindly leave."

"I'm sorry, truly I am. Please, don't be angry with me. I'm so very sorry. Let me put those flowers in water for you." He plucked the bouquet from her arms and rushed down the hall before she could take issue. "I just wanted to make sure you liked the flowers____________________"

She watched him disappear into her kitchen and sighed softly. So much for her first foray into the world of impulsive behavior. Ranelagh, apparently, required a tractable female. A shame, she reflected with a modicum of regret. He was devilishly attractive. She uttered another small sigh-of resignation; now she had to find a way to politely send Harry on his way.

It took considerable courtesy, because Harry was so intent on pleasing her, she didn't want to hurt his feelings-a long-standing problem in their friendship, or whatever term best described the nature of their involvement. She agreed, finally, to walk him back to his studio, recognizing she could better oust him without bruising his feelings if she spent some time with him.

It was warm and sunny, a perfect summer day, and in the course of their stroll down the several streets that separated their studios, Alex found herself reconciled to the abrupt departure of Lord Ranelagh. He really wasn't her style of man anyway. Harry was right. And she'd definitely violated all her usual principles in allowing herself to be seduced by his charm. Perhaps Harry's appearance had been in the way of fate and she'd been saved from disaster.

A few yards from Harry's, they met Chloe Addison watering her flowers and were cajoled into coming inside to see her newest painting. Shortly after, Walter Newly stopped by and then Peter Randel, at which point Chloe opened a bottle of wine. The discussions on art took on an increasingly heated tone as the bottle emptied and another was opened-not an unusual circumstance in the coterie of young artists who all had distinctly personal views. But their vigorous debates were without rancor, the analyzing and dissecting of the newest movements and personalities in their field undertaken in a spirit of friendship. Alex always enjoyed the camaraderie and as an added benefit, in the company of others she didn't have to concern herself with Harry's possessiveness.


Pandias Ionides could tell his wife was in a pet as she came down the walk from Alexandra's studio. Sitting in their carriage, he sighed, knowing he would have to use his considerable diplomatic skills to assuage her.

"She's not here!" Euterpe exclaimed, waving away the groom who had come forward to help her into the carriage. "I went in through the terrace doors," she continued heatedly, taking her husband's hand as he leaned forward to assist her into the carriage, "which Alex insists on leaving open"-she dropped into the seat opposite her husband with a wrathful snort-"when I've warned her time and time again what might happen to a young woman alone in London!"

Pandias was Greek consul in London and a man of cosmopolitan background, and he was pleased he'd raised a daughter with such modern views, because anyone looking to the future understood the world was rapidly changing. His wife, however, clung to tradition, and his role had always been that of peacemaker between mother and daughter. "I'm sure she just stepped out for a moment," he soothed. "Or perhaps she's at her Melbury Road house."

"Of course she isn't! She hasn't stayed there since John Courts died. And don't take that cajoling tone with me, Pandias. You know very well she's quite likely with that scoundrel Ranelagh, because Tula saw them at Ascot and she saw them leave together! Where did I go wrong?" she wailed, her lament one of long standing in regard to their daughter, who had twice married outside the Greek community. "You know she could marry Constantine Spartalis tomorrow, or Vassilis, who's loved her forever! But no, she insists on living like some bohemian, painting pictures where it's impossible to recognize a tree from a flower-and she never comes home and stays for more than a few hours! You have to find her, Pandias! And warn off that libertine Ranelagh! Why aren't we moving? We have to find her!"

The head of the Ionides family knocked on the carriage roof to order his driver on and then leaned forward and took his wife's hands in his. "I'll make some inquiries," he said softly, stroking the backs of her hands. "I'll find Alex, and I'll see that she comes to our next Sunday open house."

"And I don't want her speaking to that rake Ranelagh again," his wife insisted, leaning back in the seat, her anger beginning to subside now that her husband had agreed to intervene.

"I'll do what I can, dear, but Alex doesn't always listen. And after two husbands, I can't very well tell her how to live."

"You're too lenient, Pandias. She should have been made to marry one of our own. She should have babies now; she's thirty years old. I had all our children by the time I was her age." Her dark eyes took on a melancholy expression. "I just don't want her hurt. You know what Ranelagh's like. The whole world knows."

"I'll talk to her, I promise. But, darling, she's probably out with friends. Just because Tula saw Alex and Ranelagh leave Ascot together doesn't mean they're together now."

"For heaven's sake, Pandias, use your brain," she bristled. "Alex has spent her entire life doing exactly as she pleases-marrying two old men like she did, focusing all her energy on them and now on her painting. It's as though she displeases me on purpose!"

There were great similarities in the untrammeled nature of mother and daughter, but Pandias prudently kept his counsel. "Consider how her charities please you, darling. The schools for Greek immigrant children she finances are favorites of yours."

"Hmpf… at least those old men were good for something."

"Everyone can't marry at twenty like we did."

She sighed. "You were the handsomest man in Athens."

"And you the most beautiful woman. You still are, darling." A tall, slender woman, she bore her age well. "Now, don't you worry."

"Tell me she'll be fine, Pandias." Euterpe Ionides's eyes filled with tears. "She's our baby."

"She's strong like her mother." He patted his wife's hand. "Our baby girl will be just fine."

Chapter Eight

"I didn't dare go inside," Sam said with a smile, rising from the steps fronting Alex's cobalt-blue door. "Although you leave your studio open. Did you satisfy your young swain? You've been gone quite a while."

"I can't see how it's any business of yours." Alex had come to rest a small distance away, not sure she wanted to deal with a man who could make her pulse race on sight, not sure she shouldn't be angry with him for his earlier brusqueness, particularly unsure what he meant by "satisfy."

"I apologize. It isn't my business. I have a peace offering." He slipped a slender leather-bound volume from his jacket pocket and held it out to her. "Ruskin. People either like him or hate him."

"I find him long on theory and short on experience."

Sam slipped the book back into his pocket. "I'll have to think of something else you might like, then." His voice was rich with insinuation.

Taking issue with his cheekiness, she asked crisply, "Why are you here?"

His impudence vanished and it took him a moment to reply. "I'm not sure," he said finally. "Maybe the same reason your cheeks are flushed."

She swept her hands upward and briefly pressed her palms to her cheeks as though gauging her fevered sensibilities.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I intended to be obliging, but you're highly provocative. I don't suppose I could just carry you inside and make love to you and we could decide why we're feeling this way later?"

A carnal flame spiked through her senses, but her voice when she spoke trembled only slightly. "I'm afraid not."

"Are you still angry?"

"Like you, I'm not sure."

"I should have controlled my temper."

"Perhaps I as well."

"I do want to stay."

For how long, she wished to ask even as she understood how completely irrational her response.

"And in order to accomplish that, I'm quite willing to-"

"Perform good deeds for me?"

"Exactly." With difficulty he kept from smiling. "I couldn't have said it better."

There was no point in pretending she didn't want to make love to him. She had from the first moment she'd met him, and if he was willing to show such deference, perhaps it would be counterproductive to be churlish. And it had been a while since Leon. "Do come in, Ranelagh," she said, her mouth lifting in the faintest of smiles. "I apologize for my temper as well."

He stepped aside as she approached the entrance, then leaned forward to push the door open once she turned the knob. "I'm pleased you came back," he said.

"I feel the same way-about you." Her brows rose. "Although I'll probably live to regret it…"

"I doubt it."

"The voice of experience?" she observed sardonically.

Following her in, he shut the door. "Just a feeling I have."

She was walking before him, her gait sure, almost brisk, and he wondered for a moment how many other men had followed her like this-wanting what he wanted.

The hall carpet was museum quality-he'd not had time to notice before-the pine paneling a lustrous honey color in the afternoon light, the paintings on the walls small landscapes and London scenes in the airy impressionist style he'd first seen at Durand-Ruel a few years earlier. So she wasn't Leighton's protegee in matters of style, he thought, strangely cheered by this revelation. When she was posing nude for the artist, he'd assumed other things. Not that artistic differences meant they couldn't sleep together. Nor did it mean he viewed Leighton as a rival if they did. When women were only transient amusements, rivalry wasn't an issue.