Susan Johnson - Seduction in Mind

"Stay away from her. And you don't need lessons. You're quite accomplished enough, thank you."

"You say that as though it were vexing."

He scowled at her. "Don't start. I'm not in the mood."

"What are you in the mood for?"

Her tone was so lush with promise, he questioned his hearing. Either she was more wanton than he thought or more understanding. But unsure on such short acquaintance, he carefully said, "I'm in the mood for escape-with you. I've an apartment near the City if you'd like to see it. It's private."

"She doesn't know of it, you mean."

"That's what I mean."

"Dare you trust me not to stalk you there later?"

"You're much too busy beating off your suitors. I doubt you'd have time to pine over me."

"We could go back to my studio."

"Farida's unpredictable. It's better if she doesn't know where you live."

"Is she dangerous?"

He hesitated. "She could be."

"You've had problems?"

"Could we talk about something else? She's been one of the major mistakes in my life."

"Sam!" she protested. "You can't imply some sort of nefarious activity is involved and then expect me to suppress my curiosity."

"I'll tell you at the apartment."

"Do you have food there? I'm hungry."

"I have a chef there."

"Then, how can I refuse?"

"How indeed?" He felt immeasurably cheered, Farida's rampage banished from his mind. "I have a small collection of watercolors there as well."

"Good God, Ranelagh. I yield to your numerous allures."

He held out his hand. "And I thank you for your understanding."

His apartment was just off the Strand in a building that had once housed an Elizabethan grandee. He owned the entire complex, but his quarters were on the main floor, six large rooms he kept for his private retreat. Had she known he'd never even brought a friend there, not to mention a lover, she would have been honored. There was an array of servants at his beck and call as well as the chef, who was summoned to the drawing room to discuss dinner with them.

Candles had been lit; Sam hadn't had gaslight brought into his apartment by design, and the early twilight lent an air of calm and peace to the large, paneled room.

Claude was beside himself with joy that he could demonstrate his considerable skills to more than his employer on the rare occasions Sam was in residence, and his Gallic sensibilities were entranced at the prospect of serving so lovely a lady. When Alex spoke to him in flawless French, his eyes literally filled with tears. There was nothing too good for the beautiful mademoiselle after that. When Claude finally left after bowing himself out of the room, Sam offered Alex a soft round of applause.

"You've charmed him completely."

"He's very sweet. And apparently you never give him the opportunity to fully express himself. He doesn't like to cook your steaks."

"He's paid handsomely to cook my steaks."

"Which is why he stays."

"In addition to the fact that he has an English wife."

"Nevertheless, he's pleased to be allowed some creativity tonight."

While the dinner menu had been discussed, Sam had drunk two cognacs and quietly observed the remarkable Miss Ionides with delight. Her charms were diverse, catholic, and undeniably natural. She was capable of most anything, it seemed, and he felt fortunate to have her company this evening. And not necessarily in the usual sexual context, he reflected, recognizing the rarity of his feelings. He was actually looking forward to dining and conversing with her, not to mention enjoying her beauty across his candlelit table.

If he weren't such a pragmatist, he might consider his benign sensibilities as impressionably romantic.

"I was dismissed like some lowly lackey and run off his property," Farida spat out. "Damn his arrogant hide!"

"Come to bed, Fari. Ranelagh's made us rich enough. Don't be greedy."

"I'm not greedy, Mahmud, when the man's worth ten million. He can afford to give us more and not even miss it."

Her brother curled his fine mouth in a grimace and stretched his lithe brown body. "We should sell this grand house and go back to Egypt. It's always damp here in England and the sun never shines."

Farida stood at the end of the bed and glared at her brother. "We'll go back once I have the fortune I want. And we'll live in Cairo near the Azbakiyah Gardens, where the British nabobs live-"

"Not unless you're serving their wallah wives," he pointed out, less prone to daydreams than his sister. "Only the Europeans live there."

"Then we'll have our mansion somewhere else."

"We can do that now. We don't need more of Ranelagh's money."

"You've always thought too small, Mahmud."

His gaze turned sullen. "While you've lain with anyone who has ten piastres to offer you."

"And look what we have, thanks to me. Darling, consider"-her tone turned coaxing-"if I can make Ranelagh pay, you'll have all the desert ponies you wish."

"I want only the ones Hasim stole from us."

"And you'll have them. I promise."

"When?" Moody and sullen, he gazed at her, his handsome face a male duplicate of hers, brother and sister a stunning matched pair who had advantageously used their beauty for profit.

"Soon. The barrister said we can file a breach of promise suit, and there's always Ranelagh's Egyptian collection. Think what we could get for it on the art market." She moved around the end of the bed and sat down beside him. "I missed you today," she whispered, leaning over to kiss his sulky mouth.

"I waited for you all afternoon." His fingers tangled in her hair and he pulled her closer.

"I'm here now…" she murmured, stroking his rising erection.

"Have you ever thought about having children?" Alex asked.

Sam and Alex were looking at a series of watercolors painted by Ingres during his Italian sojourn. They had paused in front of one of small children at play in the shade of an olive tree, the dappled sun illuminating their plump, rosy faces. After a superb dinner and several glasses of wine, Alex found their cherubic looks even more endearing.

Under normal circumstances the viscount would have been alarmed at such a question, but he felt an odd tenderness toward the speaker and he only said, "No, have you?"

"I would have liked children," Alex replied, "but…" Reluctant to discuss the idiosyncracies of her marriages, her voice trailed off.

"It didn't work out."

"No."

"Penelope said she was too young to have children." Even as he spoke, he questioned his sanity. He'd never discussed his wife with anyone.

Alex smiled faintly. "St. Albans said he was too old."

"And Coutts?"

The color rose on her cheeks. "It was a personal matter."

"Ah." He took her hand. "You haven't seen my Turner watercolors yet," he said, mannerly and urbane. From the girls at Hattie's he'd heard Coutts was impotent. "They're so fragile, I have them stored in drawers." He drew her toward a large cabinet in the center of his study.

His well-bred kindness further commended him, when she was already more enchanted than she wished. She tried to repress the affection he inspired. "I first saw Turner's work when I was very young," she told him, forcing herself to speak with composure. "And I thought I was looking at dream landscapes."

"These river views especially remind me of dreams." Sam carefully lifted two sheets from a drawer and set them on the broad cabinet top. "He's been a favorite of mine for years. I bought my first Turner when I was fifteen." He glanced at her empty glass. "Would you like more cognac?"

"I shouldn't." She smiled. "But I will if you will."

Taking his glass from her, he grinned. "If you insist."

"I don't usually drink so much, but it's so peaceful here and the company is superb," she said with a smile, "and I seem to be in the mood for lethargy."

He looked up from pouring. "Are you going to fall asleep on me?"

"On you?"

"Now, there's a concept. Maybe we can look at the rest of the watercolors later." Setting down the bottle and glass, he pushed the cabinet drawer shut.

"If you don't think me too presumptuous."

"Not at all. I'm capable of saying no if I wish."

"Have you ever?"

"Do you think I haven't?"

"Answer the question." She was curious.

"What happens if I do?"

She tipped her head faintly. "You get a reward."

"Ah, then… yes, I have," he replied smoothly.

"Liar."

He looked amused. "I was just ordered to answer. You didn't say you wanted the truth."

"And we both know the truth," she declared. "Which makes this all very bizarre-my being here." She was resting her arms on the high cabinet top in a comfortable lounging pose, the wide sleeves of her gown falling away at her elbows.

"Why? It's a perfectly benign evening." But he knew what she meant by bizarre, because not only had he never had anyone to his Strand apartment, he hadn't dined alone with a lady since the early days of his ill-fated marriage. And she looked as though she belonged in his study in her softly draped gown designed in the Pre-Raphaelite mode-an Elizabethan lady to match his apartment.

"But I've never given in to impulse before-in terms of sex."

"Why not?" The pattern of his sexual life had been essentially based on impulse.

She lifted one shoulder slightly in the merest of deprecating shrugs. "Circumstances perhaps, or cultural pressures for women. Who knows?"

"So young Harry wasn't an impulse?"

"God, no. He was amazingly persistent."

Harry would bear watching, he noted silently, struck by a curious sense of possession. "Well, then this is a change for us both. You see, I've never actually had a lady in for dinner."