Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

“So she is not a working-class female.”

“No. On the contrary. She exudes an air of hauteur.”

Groveland’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t say.” He lifted the glass to his mouth and drank down the whiskey as if it might better clarify his thoughts.

“Indeed, I do,” Hutchinson retorted with a decided sniff. “I was sent on my way with the most high-handed arrogance.”

“Hmm. Audacious and difficult.”

Hutchinson grunted. “A vast understatement, Your Grace.”

The duke held out his empty glass. “One more of your fine whiskeys and then I will take myself off to reconnoiter the formidable opposition.”

But as it turned out, when the duke exited Hutchinson’s faux-Renaissance office block, he ran into Viscount Islay.

“Hi-ho, Fitz!” the viscount cried. “I hear you’re rid of Clarissa. What say you to a game at Brooks’s? ”

“Christ, gossip travels fast.” He’d just left Clarissa three hours ago.

“Margot Beaton stopped by to see my sister as I was leaving home. She was just down from Knolly’s country house party. She despises Clarissa by the way.”

“Most women do,” the duke replied drily.

“And most men don’t.”

Groveland raised his dark brows in sportive rejoinder. “But then Clarissa exerts herself to please men.”

“How much did she exert herself for you?” the viscount quipped.

“She wore me out, hence my rustication in the city. And I’d be more than happy to take some of your money at Brooks’s,” the duke said with a smile, uninterested in discussing Clarissa after a fortnight in her company.

Freddie Mackenzie grinned. “You can try, you mean.”

“But not very hard as I recall?”

Freddie was sober, however, so he paid attention to his cards and taking his money required a degree more concentration than normal for Fitz. But the duke was as lucky at cards as he was with women and ultimately he prospered for having met the viscount.

In the course of their play, the men met several other of their friends, one thing led to another, and it was well after midnight when Fitz stood under Brooks’s portico, inhaling the tepid night air and debating his options. There were numerous ladies more than willing to welcome him to their beds despite the hour, but after only recently escaping Clarissa he wasn’t particularly in the mood to play amorous games. Clarissa could suck the life out of a twenty-year-old stud, not to mention her propensity for banal conversation took away one’s taste-at least temporarily-for vapid female company.

Her acrobatic abilities aside, he should have sent her home a week ago.

Had he been less polite perhaps he wouldn’t now be beset by ennui and indecision.

He abruptly shrugged, having long ago decided that regret was a useless commodity. Bidding a friendly goodnight to Crawford, the seemingly immortal doorman, he took the stairs in a leap and strolled away toward Berkeley Square and home.

Tomorrow he would meet with the intractable Mrs. St. Vincent.

He much preferred tomorrows to yesterdays in any event-his life predicated on the maxim Never look back. A reaction perhaps to a complicated, chaotic childhood.

And truth be told, he was looking forward to the confrontation-discussion, negotiation… whatever his encounter with Mrs. St. Vincent entailed.

He was rather of the mind that he would win the day, though.

Didn’t he always?

WHILE THE DUKE of Groveland was making his way home through the gaslit streets of Mayfair, Rosalind St. Vincent was seated at her writing table, nibbling at her penholder, trying to dredge up a synonym for penis that she hadn’t already used a million times. Not that she had the leisure to deliberate for long when the next installment of Lady Blessington’s Harem Adventure was scheduled for the printer in the morning and she still had ten pages to write.

Why not the eunuch’s golden horn? The story took place in Constantinople, after all; she rather liked the play on words. And the eunuch wasn’t really a eunuch-a nice little plot twist if she said so herself.

But not half as nice as the lucrative erotica market that her well-mannered, cultivated husband had discovered. Not that she had known about Edward’s alternate writing career until after his death when she’d discovered the manuscripts in his armoire. In the course of searching for something suitable in which to bury him, she’d found the neatly tied volumes hidden behind his coats, each cover page bearing a notation of the sum realized for the work.

She’d been shocked, both by the discovery and the substantial proceeds such stories commanded. Erotica appeared to be considerably more profitable than poetry.

While Edward had been lauded and feted when his first poems had been published and he’d savored his celebrity, it had soon become apparent that fame was fleeting and the earnings from his verse would not long sustain a household.

Of course, Edward’s unfortunate addiction to gaming had also contributed to their financial problems. As did his unfortunate lack of initiative. And his guileless propensity to befriend unsavory characters. He was gulled by swindlers and artful dodges on more occasions than she wished to recall-always by men he’d perceived as bosom compatriots.

She’d always forgiven him, though. He was so sweet and naive.

Perhaps they both had been at one time.

But someone had had to overcome youthful innocence and see the world with clarity. That task, by default, had fallen to her, and she’d mustered the wherewithal to face their challenges. She’d managed to garner enough from Edward’s successful second edition of Yorkshire Memories to purchase the bookstore and in doing so had kept them solvent.

Immediately setting about to learn the trade, she’d asked questions and took advice from any successful merchant who was willing to respond to her queries. She’d also studied the prosperous bookstores in the city, noting which business practices, displays, and public readings drew the most customers. Very quickly-since their funds were limited-she’d mastered the necessary aspects of bookselling and merchandising. To those tried and true principles, she’d added particular elements of interest to her: a free library for the working poor, a small gallery where women artists could show their work, a Saturday evening reading group open to all. She also kept a steaming samovar on a table near the doorway so customers could help themselves to tea when they walked in.

The bookstore had granted them a modest living. But coming as they did from families of moderate means, they were well acquainted with living simply. While Rosalind had concentrated on managing the bookstore, Edward had written and published poems and, unbeknownst to her, authored the auxiliary works that had rendered him funds for gambling.

There had been times during the years of their marriage when she’d felt overwhelmed. Their financial resources were always stretched thin. But she’d never long succumbed to desolation-a testament perhaps to her father’s hearty spirits and her mother’s optimistic nature, which she’d inherited. Her mother had served as helpmate and inspiration to her father, who had spent a life engaged in scientific research. Eschewing fame and monetary recompense, he’d been intent on the pure joy of discovery.

So she’d fully understood Edward’s passion for poetry; she’d even sympathized with his fascination for gambling. She had only wished he might have been luckier at the tables. And slightly less moody. Stronger.

But they had both been so young when they married. Young and full of dreams.

She’d wondered more than once if he’d accidently fallen into the Thames that stormy night or whether he’d jumped from Westminster Bridge.

Her unconscious sigh shattered the silence, jerking her back to reality and her fast-approaching deadline.

She glanced at the clock. Two fifteen.

She put pen to paper, the nib fairly flying over the page. She didn’t have time for maudlin introspection or reflection on what might have been. She had to finish ten pages by eight in the morning. And that was that.

She was paid by the page.

It was piecework, pure and simple-like a seamstress who was compensated for the number of garments she completed in a day.

Rosalind smiled.

This was easier.

She’d never learned to sew despite her mother’s best efforts to make her a genteel young lady who could embroider her husband’s slippers or sew a fine seam. Fortunately her father had taken her side and she’d studied his favorite subjects instead: botany, anthropology, history, Latin, and Greek.

Even more fortunately, she’d quite by accident forged a new market for her steamy novels. Her publisher was ecstatic-his delight measured in increased fortune for her and less agreeably in persistent demands that she write faster.

Her stories ran counter to the accepted male narrative of domination bolstered by various fantastic devices with which to restrain female characters. Not that she was averse to an occasional bondage scene. After all, their bookstore had always sold books by Anonymous that were kept behind a screen in a back room. The risquй books and magazines bound in innocuous bindings had generated excellent sales.

But when she’d first undertaken the task of continuing Edward’s secret work, she’d instinctively penned tales appealing to her feminine sensibilities. Almost instantly, word of mouth had translated into a tidal wave of eager customers. Women readers, a major component of the bookstore’s customer base as well, had quickly heard of her writing-not that they knew it was hers-and had taken to indulging themselves in sexual fantasies tailored to female imaginations and passions.