Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

“We can’t make him fall in love,” Darby pointed out.

“Not to mention all them society belles are scatter-brained, misbehaving females,” Sarah grumbled. “It ain’t gonna help him any to marry someone what will jump from bed to bed like him.”

“He’s got his ma. They’re good friends. He’s not alone.”

“But he needs a wife.” Sarah sent her husband a sharp look. “Where’s he off to tonight?”

“To see that bookstore lady who’s givin’ him trouble. His pockets are full o’ jewelry Stanley picked up for him this afternoon.”

“What does she look like? Tall, short? How old is she? Is she married? I hope not, although she at least works for a living, which is more than I can say for all the fine ladies he knows. And the not-so-fine ladies he knows who make a living on their backsides. Well, tell me about her,” his wife finished, brows raised and waiting for answers.

“Stanley says she’s a widow. Beautiful as Venus, he says. He went lookin’ in case the duke needed his help. But she’s bein’ real difficult, Stanley says.”

“There ain’t a woman who can turn down the kind o’ jewels Fitzie gives away. She’ll come around,” Sarah pronounced. “They always do.”

“I’m not so sure this time. And taking gifts don’t mean nothin’. It don’t mean she’ll sell her place, and it don’t mean she likes him neither. Stanley seems to think she’s different somehow.”

“Like how?”

“Respectable, he said. Not the usual kind. A woman who stayed with her husband who didn’t do much of anything to support her. He wrote poesy verse.”

“Then she might like a man what is a man who can do anything. You know, Fitizie. There’s nothing he can’t do,” Sarah proudly declared. “He’d make the right woman a right fine husband.”

“Now don’t start,” her husband warned, recognizing the matchmaking look in his wife’s eyes. “You ain’t been lucky so far.”

“Then my chances are improving. Right?”

Darby gave his wife a lowering look. “Wrong.”

SHORTLY BEFORE NINE, Fitz was strolling toward Bruton Street, drawn to Mrs. St. Vincent’s bookstore for reasons other than business.

Boredom perhaps.

Lust certainly.

A curiosity beyond the sexual nudged his sensibilities as well, although that unknown factor was quickly suppressed.

Regardless his motivations, fate appeared to be taking a hand in his undertaking for as he approached the lighted store he saw that Mrs. St. Vincent was entertaining. Or rather hosting an event. He recognized the young art critic from the Times; they often met at artists’ studios. He also observed the correspondent for the women’s pages in Country Life. He and Miss Baldwin had shared a heated rendezvous at Countess Dalton’s costume ball last year. So even if Mrs. St. Vincent demurred, he mused with a small smile, there was a good chance he wouldn’t be without a bed partner tonight.

Apropos Mrs. St. Vincent, however, the circumstances couldn’t have been more opportune. Rather than having to privately approach the lady who had angrily dismissed him that morning, he could simply become another guest admiring the art at a public exhibition.

She wouldn’t dare throw him out. Think how awkward such a contretemps would be with reporters in full view.

He smiled. Darby was right: Lady Luck was definitely on his side, or perhaps, he reflected, offering up a prayer of thanksgiving, some sympathetic deity had intervened. Eros maybe.

Whatever the manner of auspicious fate, he was feeling a rare excitement.

Vastly uncommon of late.

And he knew it wasn’t Miss Baldwin arousing his senses. Not that she could be faulted for either her fair beauty or sexual enthusiasm.

Rather, it was the stunning Mrs. St. Vincent inspiring his sensibilities. The possibility she might yield to him brought another smile to his lips. A night of shared passion not only would be a personal victory but might also lead to a successful business transaction.

She was particularly breathtaking tonight in cream charmeuse and very little else unless his eyes deceived him. Her gown was quite daring.

Which further piqued his interest.

Would she be equally daring in bed?

ROSALIND SAW HIM the moment he walked in, her reaction enough to cause Sofia, who was standing beside her, to follow her gaze.

“We are singularly graced with the aristocracy tonight,” Sofia said softly; the avant-garde exhibits were generally outside the purview of the upper classes. They preferred the vetted Royal Academy shows.

“He’s here for no good,” Rosalind muttered.

“Or he could be interested in the exhibit. Remember, he is a collector.”

“I doubt his motives are benign. Make sure you stay by my side,” Rosalind ordered, feeling herself tense as the duke walked toward them. Then inexplicably, a flaring excitement raced through her senses and furious at both Groveland’s magnetic appeal and her shameless response, she greeted him with an unmistakably snappish tone. “To what do we owe this pleasure, Your Grace?”

“Am I intruding? I thought this was a public exhibition.” His voice, in contrast, was softly urbane.

“Indeed it is,” Sofia quickly interposed, sending Rosalind a quelling glance. “Everyone’s most welcome.”

“Forgive me. You’re welcome of course,” Rosalind murmured, understanding that her personal feelings were immaterial; selling paintings was the prime object of the evening. “Your Grace, allow me to present Sofia Eastleigh, one of the artists whose work is on display. Sofia, Groveland.”

“We’ve met before.” Fitz smiled at Sofia. “And I recognize your work.” He nodded at her delphinium painting visible in the distance. “Although, I haven’t seen you at Leighton’s of late.”

“My leisure time is limited now that my art is actually selling. The more I paint, the more I sell,” Sofia explained with a grin.

“Congratulations. Although anyone with your talent was sure to meet with success.”

“Thank you. According to Leighton you’re no mean draftsman yourself.”

“Leighton is being generous,” Fitz replied with well-bred grace. “I’m the most amateur of dabblers.”

“Didn’t you have two drawings in the last Academy show?”

Fitz lifted one brow. “Sir Joffrey had partisan motives. He likes to fish at my Scottish property.”

“You’re much too modest. They were excellent.”

Just as Rosalind was beginning to feel like a third wheel, Fitz turned to her and said with a disarming smile and a singularly intimate gaze, “Might I impose on you to show me around your gallery, Mrs. St. Vincent?”

Rosalind suddenly felt as though she were alone with him in the midst of the crowd, his intense grey gaze mesmerizing. Then out of the blue, a flame-hot jolt of desire spiked downward, shocking her senses, inciting wholly unacceptable passionate cravings.

She faintly heard Sofia say, “Go,” but only when she felt the pressure of Sofia’s hand on her back did she regain a modicum of self-possession.

“If you please, Groveland,” she said, her words still faintly breathy. Warning herself to get hold of her senses, she dipped her head in his direction and added more lucidly, “Do follow me.”

Tantalized by her shapely form on display beneath the simplicity of her clinging gown, captivated by the heated moment when their eyes had met, only too aware of her jasmine scent in his nostrils, Fitz was in the mood to follow her anywhere at all.

Which meant his plans for the evening were falling nicely into place.

She was willing even if she didn’t know it.

The point was, he did.

Her slender, curvaceous figure was equally enticing from the rear, her gliding walk, the gentle sway of her hips pure temptation. The radical chic of her gown offered the merest sop to convention. She might as well have been naked beneath the sleek medieval-style dress reminiscent of Rossetti’s paintings.

Hopefully she soon would be.

He glanced at his wristwatch. Merde. He’d have to play the gentleman for some time yet.

And so he did, listening politely as she guided him around the exhibit, making the appropriate responses to the work shown him, never overstepping the bounds of politesse. In short, presenting a completely different persona than he had earlier that day. However, he liked that she blushed if he held her glance a moment too long, and he also liked that her manner toward him softened as they wandered the exhibit.

The space was relatively small, though, so afterward, when he took time to speak to the various artists either in Rosalind’s company or alone, he was never far from the object of his pursuit. Including the time Miss Baldwin cornered him and commenced pressing her suit with vigor. Pressing her substantial bosom against his chest as well with complete disregard for their audience.

“People are looking, sweetheart,” he murmured, keeping his hands to himself, not wishing to openly push her away for fear of embarrassing her.

“I don’t care,” she purred, rubbing against him, the lace ruffle on her low decolletage suddenly catching on one of his pearl studs.

“Ah, but you should care, dearest,” he added under his breath, trying to detach the lace without tearing it. Oh, Christ-Mrs. St. Vincent had glanced his way and frowned. “Why don’t we plan on spending some time together tomorrow instead?” he suggested, needing to quickly extricate himself from Miss Baldwin’s clutches and lace ruffles.

Her upturned gaze was suddenly sharp. “When tomorrow?”

“Anytime.” He stepped back. There, finally.

“Are you busy tonight?” A small pettish query at both his excuse and the fact that he’d backed away from her.

“Actually, my mother is coming in on the midnight train,” he lied.

“Your mother?” Her sky blue eyes were skeptical.