“Yes, upon my word.” All’s fair in love and war.

She paused briefly in consideration, then looking at him from under her lashes, coquettishly said, “Very well. The Savoy at four.”

He smiled. “Excellent. Do you like roses?”

“Of course, darling.” She reached out and ran her fingers down the fine silk of his waistcoat in a proprietary gesture. “Red roses,” she murmured in a sultry contralto.

Watching Miss Baldwin walk away, it took him a moment to collect himself, having only narrowly averted a scene. And he well knew she was not a woman who gave up gracefully. After Charlotte’s costume ball, she’d relentlessly pursued him, going so far as to call at his home. Fortunately, the race season had begun at the time and he was rarely in London. As for the Savoy engagement, time enough to deal with that tomorrow. Right now, he had more pleasant prospects in mind.

For the remaining hours of the exhibit, he avoided Miss Baldwin and unostentatiously pursued Mrs. St. Vincent. Rather than offering posies and charming phrases in the usual seduction, Fitz cultivated the lady’s good will instead by purchasing a dozen paintings.

Rosalind was naturally delighted. She was further enchanted by his amiable rapport with her artist friends; she had not thought a peer of Groveland’s consequence could be so unaffected. Particularly after his high-handed arrogance that morning.

But he turned out to be enormously gracious and engaging, even so kind as to send for champagne from his cellar for her guests. Rosalind couldn’t help but be gratified. She found herself reconsidering her previous judgment, viewing him now in a much more favorable light.

After all, the show was a huge success thanks in part to Groveland’s largesse. The women artists she sponsored were considerably more prosperous-again, thanks to the duke.

Sofia, apparently, was in accord when it came to Groveland’s benevolence for she spoke up for him sometime later as they were refilling trays of sweets in Rosalind’s kitchen. “You might want to change your mind about Groveland, darling. Not only is he a generous patron of the arts, he’s really quite lovely in any number of ways. As you may have noticed.”

Rosalind gave her friend an arch look. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from him. Is he not known for his cultivated graces?”

“I’d say his manner is particularly affable to you.”

“Please,” Rosalind said. “He has ulterior motives as you well know.”

“Of course he does, and if I were you, I’d seriously consider taking him up on his offer.”

“Sell my store!” Rosalind tossed a mutinous look her friend’s way. “Never!”

“I meant, darling,” Sofia soothingly replied, “why not spend the night with him and let him gratify your senses? He is in great demand for all the right reasons-very large reasons, I’ve heard.”

“For heaven’s sake, Sofia!”

“Some say he posed for Zeus in Noland’s Rape of Danae,” Sofia went on undeterred, Rosalind’s rosy flush indicating interest-whether she realized it or not. “Have you seen the painting?” Sofia’s pale brows rose in signal hyperbole. “Very impressive male anatomy.”

“I rather think the correspondent from Country Life will be taking advantage of Groveland’s impressive anatomy tonight,” Rosalind said with a little sniff.

Sofia looked up from the petit fours she was placing in neat rows on a tray. “I think it bothers you that she might.”

“It certainly does not!”

“Please, I’ve know you too long. Be honest-it does.”

“Well if it does, it shouldn’t,” Rosalind crisply retorted.

“Yorkshire rules? Come, darling, you’re in London now. There aren’t any rules when it comes to passion. Here it’s strictly about self-indulgence or better yet,” she added with a wink, “overindulgence.”

“I’m not interested in passion or indulgence of any kind,” Rosalind firmly said, as if a resolute delivery would translate to an equal decisiveness in her mind.

“Of course you are,” Sofia calmly returned. “Despite your protests. So why not indulge in the breathless joys of passion? And who better than Groveland to offer you those pleasures?”

Rosalind smiled tolerantly at her friend; how many times had they covered this subject in the course of her widowhood? “While you may embrace such breathless sensibilities, my life is about customers and sales, book orders and events like this. But should the time ever come when I’m in the grip of your thrilling emotions, you can be sure I’ll consider gratifying them.”

“Perhaps later tonight,” Sofia slyly murmured.

“No, not tonight.” Rosalind placed the last strawberry tart in place and picked up the tray. “Now enough nonsense. Let’s see if we can sell another painting.”

As a matter of fact, several more paintings were eventually sold, and by eleven the gallery guests were departing, the tarts and petit fours were all eaten, the champagne drunk, and a sense of an evening well spent pervaded the air.

Groveland was standing beside Rosalind as the clock struck the hour.

Taking note of the time, he said, “It’s getting late. Thank you for a lovely evening.” His smile was practiced, but Mrs. St. Vincent was quite inexplicably redefining his casual regard for the women in his life. She inspired a rare predatory instinct; he disliked the feeling. “I’ll send my men in the morning to collect my paintings.” It had been a mistake to come.

No, don’t go! Rosalind impulsively thought, only to instantly equivocate. Just say goodnight; do not become involved with the much too charming Duke of Groveland.

Who, unfortunately, wanted her store.

It may have been gypsy fate that Sofia walked over at that moment, or random chance or kismet. Or perhaps scheming design. She was clinging to the arm of the Times art critic, who in turn was holding up a bottle of Fitz’s champagne. “If we open this last bottle, will you two have a drink with us?” Sofia brightly inquired. “Since we seem to be the only ones left.”

“I wouldn’t mind a glass,” Fitz heard himself say. So much for reason in the presence of a hot-spur libido.

“I don’t know,” Rosalind objected politely, her voice of reason still operating. “It is late.”

“How long will it take to drink one glass?” Sofia coaxed, intent on Rosalind taking advantage of Groveland’s obvious interest when her dearest friend had been celibate too long. “One little drink, darling,” she cajoled, “to celebrate the success of the show and my increased fortune.”

Since Sofia’s good fortune was due to Groveland’s numerous purchases, Rosalind relented. Or told herself she did because of that. “Very well. One drink.”

The die was cast.

Not that Rosalind knew until later.

But Sofia did.

And Fitz did.

In fact, he knew with such certainty that he literally checked his watch as if marking the time when he’d carried the day. Or night as it were. As for his obsession with Mrs. St. Vincent, by morning he’d have had his fill of her and he could get on with his life.

Retiring to the back of the store, the two couples found seats on worn sofas Rosalind kept there for customers of her free library who needed a bed for the night. The couches’ frayed frieze upholstery and scuffed mahogany trim, the stacks of books littering the floor, the night sounds of the city drifting in through the open window were all irrelevant to the cozy group drinking champagne and exchanging postmortem comments on the show.

Rosalind was surprised at Groveland’s comprehensive understanding of the newest trends in modern art. She felt quite out of her element as the three others discussed the Paris and London art shows of recent years: the artists of note, those on the rise, the avant-garde styles most likely to endure. She realized that Groveland had a life beyond his scandalous reputation; she understood, too, that Sofia might have been right. Perhaps she was pleased after all that the Country Life siren had not taken Groveland away.

But as quickly as she acknowledged his sexual attraction, she recognized how out of character it would be to yield to her impulses. She was not a free spirit like Sofia. Furthermore, she reflected, ticking off additional reasons to reject the infamous Groveland, her capitulation would mean less than nothing to a man who, according to rumor, had slept with untold women.

Is he really that good?

The unspeakable thought stunned and electrified her senses.

Sent a shiver up her spine.

He noticed and turning to her, murmured solicitously, “Would you like my jacket?”

“No, no… I’m fine… really,” Rosalind stammered, quickly looking away from the tantalizing query in his gaze.

“You’re sure.”

He knows, she thought. He can tell. She forced a smile and said in a scrupulously neutral tone, “It must have been a draft from the window.”

Fortunately, at that moment Sofia asked him a question about the Royal Academy that initiated a lengthy conversation. And by the time Sofia had fully vented her myriad resentments on the stupid old men controlling the annual judging, Rosalind had composed her restive emotions.

Before long, the champagne exhausted, Sofia rose, took her partner’s hand, and pulled him to his feet. “I don’t know about you,” she said with a wink for Rosalind and Fitz, “but we have better things to do. Right?” Rising on tiptoe, she brushed Arthur Godwin’s cheek with a kiss.

“Absolutely.” He grinned. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting.”

“Since last year at Michaelmas when I met you in Chelsea,” Sofia matter-of-factly declared.

“Before,” he softly returned. He was slender and fine-featured, handsome in the style of the first Duke of Buckingham.