Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

Oh God-what was she doing?

She was going straight to hell if she continued this train of thought.

It took her a moment to restrain her wayward passions and a moment more to be able to speak in a normal tone. “I’m so very sorry. Ordinarily, I would never even think of slapping anyone.” She exhaled softly. “You provoke me in any number of ways. Admit, what you are doing is not business as usual for most people.”

He chose not to further offend her by saying he did as he pleased because he wasn’t most people. “You’re right. I’m sorry as well. It’s been an odd evening. Too many people perhaps,” he said, deliberately neglecting specifics like Clarissa and Flora’s irritating skirmish and Harry’s interference. “I’ll make a bargain with you. Come with me to my villa and I promise to play the role of Lancelot if you like-pure of heart and saintly.”

“Why should I trust you? ”

His lashes drifted lower and he surveyed her with his cool grey gaze. “The scandal sheets aside, I rarely lie.” He smiled. “With the exception of the occasional perjury in the heat of passion. Since we have agreed to dispense with passion tonight, the unromantic truth will hold sway.”

Why was she suddenly chagrined?

He was offering her what any self-respecting woman would want. Conversation, pleasant company, a strict propriety. Why was she disappointed?

“You mean it? ” An ambiguous query like her equivocal state of mind.

“Word of honor,” he easily replied, knowing he had qualified his offer with the phrase if you like.

She smiled. “A glass of champagne sounds very nice.”

Her smile warmed his heart, a shocking revelation he quickly brushed aside. Reverting to type, he pleasantly said, “When the moon comes up over the river, the scene is quite magical.” He grinned. “And I’m not prone to whimsy. It’s just picturesque I suppose-the gently flowing river, the moonlight filtered through the willows, an all-encompassing peace. Unlike the city.”

“I do have to be home before midnight in order to open the store on time.”

“Whatever you say,” he amiably replied. “And thank you. I appreciate your company.” He actually meant it, the difference between Mrs. St. Vincent and Clarissa or Flora profound. It made him wonder if his prodigality would have been better served outside the world of the beau monde.

He certainly couldn’t accuse Mrs. St. Vincent of the sameness that characterized all the women of fashion he knew.

FITZ’S VILLA WAS a picturesque sight as the carriage rolled up a slight incline to the entrance. Rosalind admired the elegant facsimile of the Petit Trianon situated on the crest of a hill and wondered what ancestor had been enamored of French architecture. The charming villa was surrounded by an equally charming Capability Brown landscape of specimen trees, verdant lawns, and colorful flowers; glimpses of the Thames were visible in the distance.

As though intrinsic to such a noble display of wealth, a host of servants rushed out to greet them as the carriage came to a stop on the graveled drive.

Fitz casually waved to his staff as he stepped out, then turned to help Rosalind alight. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “I am.”

“Perhaps a little,” she murmured, distracted by the splendor of her surroundings. Light gleamed from every window, two tall bronze torchieres stood on either side of the wide bank of stairs, the pale limestone of the exterior shimmered in the twilight, the scent of jasmine pungent on the air. “Jasmine-lovely,” she said with a smile.

“That’s why I like your perfume. It reminds me of Mertenside. I like it here. Come, we’ll say hello to the staff and then walk through the house to the river.”

He introduced her to his majordomo and in general to the others lined up on the drive. She watched Fitz chat with several of his retainers as they slowly made their way to the house and was surprised at the casualness of his manner. No arrogant peer of the realm here, only a man comfortable with his staff.

As they walked through twin bronze doors, held open by two footmen, Fitz turned to his majordomo, who was waving flunkeys before them to open further doors. “Tell Hector we could use a little something to eat. He needn’t go out of his way. Something simple. And champagne, Chandler. The ’73.”

Rosalind gazed with awe at the rooms they passed through, the decor lifted wholesale from Versailles, although the rococo furniture was oversize, clearly made for a man, while the sumptuous carpets were pure silk and so plush her feet sank into them.

Strangely, the opulent interiors enhanced Fitz’s dark masculinity, the stark contrast between gilt and damask, Chinoiserie wallpaper and graceful furniture only making his strength and virility more conspicuous. Just as a splendid animal outrivaled a trivial display of gilded luxury.

Or a powerful lord minimized his environment.

When they’d walked to the end of an enfilade of rooms and reached the terrace doors, Fitz said, “Thank you, Chandler. That will be all.” And with a faint bow, he offered his arm to Rosalind.

They walked out into the twilight again, strolled down a shallow flight of marble stairs, and set out across a velvety swath of lawn that sloped down to the river.

“It is magical,” Rosalind commented softly, the evening sky still golden on the horizon, the birds making music in the trees, the river slowly flowing by. “The house, the parkland-everything’s so lush and green.”

“Thank you. Mertenside’s my haven from the city.”

“Do you come here often? ”

“As often as I can. Would you like to sit outside or inside?” He indicated a glass summer house on the river bank.

“Outside. I was inside all day.”

“Was the store busy? ” he politely asked.

“Not in the afternoon. It was too hot for anyone to be out.”

“It has been unseasonably warm even for August,” Fitz affably returned, wondering how long it would be before Mrs. St. Vincent would be interested in more than conversation.

Rosalind, in turn, was wondering if she’d again misjudged Groveland. Was he less a rogue than she thought? Was rumor wrong? Could he be a man like any other?

Two bottles of champagne later, Rosalind was thinking of other things. She was wondering in metaphorical terms whether she would allow herself to have her cake and eat it, too. Even though she shouldn’t even be thinking about cake.

Fitz took note of the change in her demeanor-with gratitude.

She laughed freely now, teased him on occasion, and answered his questions without caution. Although he was careful to ask only questions she’d find unexceptional.

It was a proverbial cat-and-mouse game, yet at a more subtle level: the question of who played which role wasn’t clear.

Not that Fitz could ever be accused of being anyone’s prey. But susceptible he certainly was to the lady’s outrageous allure.

As for Rosalind, she more demonstrably fell victim to Fitz’s noted charm, but then his skills in that regard were legendary.

“You are indeed an attractive rogue,” she said some time later, half raising her glass to him. Dinner had been superb, the champagne was like drinking stars, her companion was surely one of the most charming of men; she was content and happy to a degree that had eluded her for a very long time.

“As you know, I find you the most beautiful of women,” he said, smiling back. “Would you like more champagne? ” Without waiting for an answer, he picked up the bottle, rose from his chair opposite her, topped off her glass, and sat back down.

She was lounging on a large chaise upholstered in brilliant scarlet raw silk, the contrast of color against the saffron of her gown dramatic.

“You could be one of Alexander the Great’s ladies from his India campaign in your Grecian gown, lying on that hot red silk,” he softly said. “Roxana perhaps instead of Rosalind.”

“And you have the look of a swarthy corsair, dressed all in black with your shirt collar open, your feet bare, and your black hair ruffled from the breeze.”

“If you like, we could pretend-”

“Or not,” she interrupted. Setting her glass on the table beside the chaise, she decided that she’d fought off her desires long enough. The man was God’s gift to women and not just physically… well, perhaps especially there, she thought, recalling his stamina of the night past. “At the risk of sounding like the most shallow of women,” she said, prettily crinkling her nose, “I find you much too handsome in every respect.”

“And? ” He knew the rest, but he was polite.

“I was wondering if you’d like to do something other than talk.”

“Yes, certainly.”

She smiled. “Do you always just sit back and wait, Groveland? I suppose you do.”

“I wasn’t exactly sure how to play Lancelot,” he replied, sportive and teasing.

“I’m not sure I care.”

“Ah, in that case…” Having been given license, he came to his feet, walked the few steps to her chaise, and sat beside her. The lounge chair was big enough for two for a reason, not that he had women to Mertenside often. But occasionally he did.

“Tell me I’m not the thousandth woman you’ve made love to on this chaise.” Even as she spoke she had no idea why it mattered with a man like Groveland. And so she said a second later, “Strike that last comment. It’s quite irrelevant.”

“You’re not the thousandth, or even the hundredth or twentieth. Is that better? ”

“No, none of this is better in any way.” She made a small moue. “This is all very much a breach of custom for me. But I want the pleasure you bring me.” She shrugged. “I expect it’s the champagne talking.”

He smiled. “Like last night.”

She laughed. “Indeed. Give me another last night and I’ll be content.”