Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

“I’m sure Groveland is quite busy with the revels of fashionable society. I have no expectations, Mrs. Beecham-none at all. Now, let me show you the new novels that arrived yesterday. Mrs. Thornhill has written a most delightful story and I know she’s one of your favorites.”

After Groveland’s spiteful threats the last person she wished to discuss was his eminence, the most odious, hateful man in England!

WHILE GUIDING MRS. Beecham to the new novels, Rosalind only half listened to the woman’s chatter, planning instead how best to defend herself against Groveland’s attack-which would surely come.

He’d turned out to be the exact spoiled, arrogant aristocrat she’d expected. Quick-tempered when rebuffed, indifferent to all but his own wishes, intent on riding roughshod over anyone who stood in his way.

But she would not be intimidated.

She owned her building; he could not dislodge her.

No matter what.

STRIDING SWIFTLY DOWN Bond Street toward Piccadilly, Fitz was currently focused on that what. And the mood he was in, the Monckton Row project wasn’t even a consideration.

Retaliation was foremost in his mind.

And winning against the insufferable Mrs. St. Vincent!

He cautioned himself to calm as he quickly made his way toward Hutchinson’s office, but with his temper in high dudgeon, issues of reason and restraint were largely nullified. All he could think about was triumphing over the hot-tempered, unreasonable, defiant bitch.

Good God, he’d never before felt like striking a woman.

Never.

That she was the most perverse and bold-as-brass female he’d ever met was no doubt cause for his aberrant behavior.

As for the circumstances of her husband’s death, after bearing the brunt of Mrs. St. Vincent’s sharp tongue, he thought it rather likely that she had driven the poor man to jump.

Crossing Piccadilly Square, Groveland entered the grand Italianate palazzo that bespoke Hutchinson’s repute as a jurist. Passing through the resplendent marble-columned foyer, he took the stairs at a run and barged into Hutchinson’s office suite like a bull in a china shop. “I’ll see myself in,” he crisply asserted, striding past the law clerks who served as assistants, errand boys, and in this case, gatekeepers.

One of the young men jumped up and courageously blocked Fitz’s path. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but Mr. Hutchinson is with a client.”

“Then get rid of him.”

The young man’s bravery faltered before the duke’s blunt, gimlet-eyed order, but only for a moment. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t do that.”

Fitz gave the young man credit for nerve. “I see. Then could you tell me who Hutchinson is with?” A flicker of amusement gleamed in Groveland’s eyes. “Or would that be too much to ask?”

“No, sir, of course not, sir. Mr. Hutchinson is with the Earl of Somerset.”

Fitz smiled. “Charlie won’t mind if I intrude.” Smoothly sidestepping the young clerk, he strode toward Hutchinson’s office. “I’ll make sure to tell your employer you did your best to stop me,” he tossed back over his shoulder.

Seconds later, he closed the door behind him and smiled at the two men who had turned at his entrance. “Your boy tried to stop me, Hutchinson. Don’t sack him. Morning, Charlie. I’m in a helluva temper and even more of a rush. I need a few moments of Hutchinson’s time.”

Charlie Melville grinned. “Some woman after your skin?”

“On the contrary, some woman needs to be put in her place.”

“Hell, Fitz, I thought you knew how to do that better than anyone. In bed and under you. Ain’t that your way? ”

“Unfortunately, this woman is proving difficult. Have a drink Charlie,” Fitz suggested, nodding at Hutchinson’s drink trolley, the earl known to often drink his breakfast. “This won’t take long. If I could speak with you, Prosper,” he added, indicating a grouping of chairs across the room with a wave of his hand.

As the men took their seats a moment later, Hutchinson said, “I gather Mrs. St. Vincent wasn’t cooperative.”

“She is unspeakably ill-natured and blind to all reason,” Fitz brusquely retorted. “I want her crushed.” Holding up a finger, he smiled thinly. “Let me rephrase that. I want her gone. I don’t care how you do it.”

The barrister suppressed his astonishment; Groveland was not a vindictive man. “While I understand your exasperation,” he cautioned, “as your barrister, I have to remind you that certain legalities must be observed.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Fitz murmured, dismissing Hutchinson’s reservations. “Naturally, she must be dealt with lawfully. But you know as well as I that legalities are, shall we say, flexible.”

“To a point, Your Grace. Only to a point.”

Fitz’s dark brows rose. “That definitive point is what I pay you for, Hutchinson. I expect you to calibrate the boundaries to a nicety.” He blew out a breath. “I’m not unreasonable. I just want it done.”

“I understand. Naturally, I’m at your disposal.”

Hutchinson always had the capacity to calm; maybe it was his voice. Or his steadiness and lack of alarm. Fitz sighed and smiled faintly. “Imperturbable as usual, Hutchinson. What would I do without you?”

Since Groveland was his best client and a decent man as well, the barrister said with utter sincerity, “I could say the same, Your Grace. You have been a most generous patron.”

“This particular problem will tax your ingenuity as well as your patience, I’m afraid. Not that I’m advocating all out war mind you-for now at least.” His gaze narrowed faintly. “It might be helpful to investigate Mrs. St. Vincent’s personal life with an eye to gaining some leverage. Does she have debts, for instance, and if so, who holds the paper? Does she engage in dalliance? Might we unearth some scandal in that regard? Is it possible her family might be useful in persuading her to accept our offer? I’ll leave it to you to find some means to change her mind.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

“I knew I could count on you,” Fitz warmly noted. “In the meantime, I’ll attempt some personal persuasion with regard to Mrs. St. Vincent. I’ll offer her an abject apology for my impetuous temper.” He smiled. “I mentioned her husband’s death in uncivil terms for which I’ll eat humble pie and do penance. Then I’ll ply her with the usual bibelots women fancy and attempt to win her over with my”-he smiled again-“largesse. We shall employ your sticks and my carrots to a, hopefully, successful conclusion. By the way, I offered her twenty thousand.”

Hutchinson wasn’t prone to gasp, but twenty thousand drew a rare gasp from him. “She turned it down?” His barrister’s mind wished complete clarity on such breathtaking moral rectitude.

“Emphatically. And caustically, I might add.” Fitz stood. “I won’t intrude further on your time. Keep me informed of whatever information you unearth. I’m off to speak with Williams now. He might be able to redesign that corner or at least postpone construction as it relates to her bookstore until we acquire it.” Turning, he waved at Somerset. “Thanks, Charlie! Are you hunting at Arlie’s next month?”

“Would I miss it?”

“Then I’ll see you there.”

His mood much improved, the duke leisurely strolled toward St. James’s. Hutchinson’s staff would be fully engaged in obtaining pertinent details on Mrs. St. Vincent’s personal life that could prove useful. She, like everyone, had skeletons in her closet-the husband’s gambling activities, for one. And with a woman of Mrs. St. Vincent’s arresting beauty, he doubted she lived a chaste life.

While he personally ignored society’s strictures when it came to morals, a woman, particularly one of lesser rank, could not so easily disregard them. Scandal accrued to females of middling rank who engaged in fornication outside the marriage bed. And as he understood it, the husband had been deceased for some time. Surely, in her widowhood, the beautiful, voluptuous Mrs. St. Vincent had been tempted to indulge her passions on occasion.

In fact, had he not detected a moment of prurient interest-however quickly suppressed-this morning over tea?

The thought of which was intriguing. Nor could he completely discount the satisfaction he would experience-beyond the obvious sexual gratification-if he were successful in bringing the lovely Mrs. St. Vincent to bed in the course of his persuasion campaign.

Was she a screamer?

He smiled.

He rather thought she might be.

AT THE SAME time Groveland was contemplating making love to his adversary, the object of his musing was seated across from her friend, Sofia Eastleigh, and explaining in a voice of contained fury, “You can’t imagine the high-handed, barefaced gall of the man! His Grace, the esteemed duke of every profligacy on the face of the earth, said to me with shameless arrogance, ‘Your property stands in the way of my project,’ as if I should instantly capitulate because my bookstore happens to be in his way and his wish is my command! Ha! Never!”

Sofia grinned. “I expect he was angry when he left.”

“Not as angry as I, believe me! If Mrs. Beecham hadn’t come in as he was leaving I would have screamed the heaven’s down around his insolent head! I am so completely disgusted with rich nobles who think they can have anything they want simply because they want it! It’s outrageous! And wrong!”

Sofia had lived too long on her own resources to look askance at wealth of any kind, but she kindly said, “You see the world through your social consciousness, darling. I confess I don’t. Not that I don’t understand policy reforms would offer better lives for the poor. But consider, Groveland is offering to buy you out for a considerable sum.”