Gorgeous as Sin (19 page)

Fitz had a rare zest for domination that day, as if physically chastising Clarissa would somehow appease or indulge his moody discontent. However, despite laboring at his task through several of Clarissa’s orgasms, her flagellation fantasy was unable to sufficiently distract him. Habitual custom failed to serve as antidote to his discontent. Softly swearing in frustration, he finally dropped the makeshift whip, unbuttoned his trousers, and resentful and surly, turned into the malevolent master he’d been playing. Without warning, he buried his cock in Clarissa’s ripe cunt.

She squealed at his sudden, rough entry, but he didn’t hear or didn’t care and swiftly pounded his way to orgasm, jerked out, and came on her back.

“My goodness, darling,” she murmured, turning to look at him over her shoulder, her little maid’s cap all eschew. “That was rather violent.”

“I was tired of waiting.” He didn’t say he was sorry because he wasn’t, nor was he likely to explain the turmoil in his brain. “Now, get up on the bed, you hot little jade, and lift up your legs. I’m going to drink some champagne out of your pussy.”

Nothing helped though. No matter how many times he came, he couldn’t forget Mrs. St. Vincent or more to the point, the incredible sex.

It wasn’t like this. This was normal sex, sex without emotion. Orgasmic sex that never came within calling distance of fervent feeling.

Fuck—as if he was looking for
that
.

 

 

HOURS LATER, THEY lay sweaty and exhausted in the shambles of the bed, Clarissa’s head on Fitz’s shoulder, his arm around her.

“Are you going to Margo’s country house party next week? ”

“God no. Margo’s a bore.”

“Oh pooh. Then I don’t want to go.”

“I heard that Roddy will be there. He’s back on business. Without his family. I’m sure he’ll be happy to entertain you.”

Clarissa sighed. “Sometimes I think I should have married Roddy even if he didn’t have much money. He has a lovely tea plantation in India now and tons of servants, and everyone says the climate isn’t so ghastly in the highlands.”

“Seriously, darling, would you be happy on a tea plantation? ”

She ran her fingertip down Fitz’s taut stomach. “I think I could be.”

“You’d be miles away from everyone, with no society to speak of . . . except for retired military men and government clerks.” He gently stroked her back. “And you’d be poor. Why not just roger Roddy on his visits home and enjoy Buckley’s wealth.”

She sighed again. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I wouldn’t mind being poor—except that my family depends on me of course.” Another sigh. “Have you ever been in love, Fitz? I mean really in love? ”

“Nope.”

“Does it bother you that you haven’t been? ”

When in the past he wouldn’t have hesitated a second, he found that the lovely Mrs. St. Vincent had somehow leaped into his mind. But he quickly brushed the image aside and said, “It doesn’t bother me at all.”

“That’s because you’re a man. Men don’t fall in love like women do.”

“Should I send you some pearls or diamonds, or maybe those new opals from Australia? ” he interposed, intent on changing the subject.

“Black pearls,” Clarissa instantly replied. “Nicer ones than Margo’s.”

“You pick them out. I’ll let Montgomery know you’re coming in.”

His generosity elicited numerous kisses, which led to other things, and it was another hour before Fitz left Clarissa’s bed—and house.

It was all well and good, he thought, spending the day in bed playing make-believe and coming so many times he was drained dry.

What wasn’t so fine, he decided, as he strolled away from Lord Buckley’s new mansion on Park Lane, was that he’d no more than walked out of Clarissa’s boudoir, than he was thinking of Rosalind—again, no matter her guile and artifice.

Fuck.

So much for sex as a blot to memory.

Apparently, it was not a permanent modifier.

What now?

Drink, cards, another woman?

As if in answer, the pungent odor of sex suddenly wafted upward and struck his nostrils.

He grimaced.

Home first, to bathe and change.

Chapter 22

WHILE FITZ WAS entertaining himself or Clarissa or both or maybe at the core, neither, Rosalind was shocked by a visit from a doctor.

She wasn’t certain whether the woman had waited until the store was deserted or she’d only just walked in. Rosalind had been too busy stocking shelves to notice. But when Dr. Swindell approached her, introduced herself, and explained the reason for her visit, Rosalind turned bright red. “You must be mistaken,” she croaked, setting down the books she held. “Are you sure you have the correct address? ”

“Forgive me,” the slender, middle-aged woman gently replied, familiar with women who were too embarrassed to admit they needed her help. “I didn’t realize I wasn’t expected. I was asked to call on you.”

“By whom? ”

“A Mr. Hutchinson. He’s a barrister who lives in my neighborhood.”

Rosalind bristled at the name, momentarily recalling her first meeting with Groveland’s hireling. “Why would he think I need a doctor? ”

“Mr. Hutchinson didn’t say. Although his note gave the impression that a client of his had asked me to call on you. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.” Since many women found it difficult to talk about female complaints, Dr. Swindell added, “Might you require medical help of some kind? I specialize in female disorders and naturally, I’m most discreet.”

Finally recognizing the common denominator at the mention of female disorders, Rosalind was about to point-blank dismiss the doctor Fitz had hired when she more sensibly realized that she might benefit from the visit. There was no question she’d been in discomfort that first morning after sex with Fitz; she was also ignorant of the long-term consequences of excessive sexual activity. Perhaps it would be wise to take advantage of the doctor’s expertise. Rosalind glanced around the store, in the event a customer had walked in.

“I waited until everyone left,” the doctor noted, conscious of Rosalind’s anxious survey of the shop. “And might I add, I have no interest in moral issues when it comes to health care.” She’d been told that Mrs. St. Vincent was a widow; she’d also assumed from Hutchinson’s letter that some man was paying the charges. “We live in a new modern era after all. The culture is changing rapidly, social conventions are in flux.” She smiled. “Even female doctors are no longer looked upon as curiosities or misfits.”

No matter how delicately put, Rosalind understood the message. There were those who would construe her behavior with Groveland as improper. “Thank you for your understanding. However,” Rosalind went on with a faint grimace, “you can understand my reluctance to disclose, er, details of a personal nature.”

“If it’s any consolation, your sense of modesty is common. I see it every day in my practice. But please be frank. I’m sure I can help remedy whatever is troubling you.”

Rosalind hesitated. “The fact is,” she began, then blew out a small breath, embarrassed to be talking to a stranger about such private matters.

“Please, go on,” Dr. Swindell prompted, cool and unruffled.

“Well...you see, lately”—another small sustaining breath—“after having been long celibate, I’ve engaged in rather a good deal of intercourse. As a result, I experienced a decided tenderness—much improved now,” she quickly added.

“Yours is a very ordinary complaint, my dear. Women who haven’t previously engaged in sexual relations or those who have become active again after a long hiatus often feel as you do. If I could examine you, however, I could better determine whether some remedy is required.”

Rosalind blushed furiously. “I couldn’t possibly. Not now. The store is open until six, I’m here alone, and actually I feel quite well again.”

The doctor checked a small jeweled timepiece pinned to the lapel of her grey tailored suit. “Since you won’t be available for several hours, why don’t I leave you some salve. It will alleviate any tenderness. Then, at your convenience, you could come round to my office. I don’t anticipate anything of a serious nature, but an examination would allow a proper diagnosis. My office is in my home, so you could make an appointment for any evening.” Opening her leather valise, she rummaged through its contents and came up with a small jar. “Apply this to your tender areas as needed. Also, a good hot soak in the tub does wonders,” she added with a smile, handing the jar to Rosalind. “Do you have any other complaints? ”

Only that a libertine duke has embarrassed me by sending over a complete stranger.
At the word
libertine
, Rosalind was suddenly seized by panic. A libertine was by definition promiscuous. Might she have contracted some dreadful disease from Fitz? “Maybe I should make an appointment now,” she said.

In her years of practicing medicine, Dr. Swindell had become adept at reading people. She recognized fear when she saw it. “How does tomorrow at seven sound? ”

“Tomorrow at seven would be
most
welcome.” The prospect of having to worry about some dire affliction for a protracted period of time would have been torture.

“Let me give you directions.” The doctor wrote down her address on a page from a small notepad. “There now.” She tore off the sheet and handed it to Rosalind with another warm smile. “Until tomorrow, my dear.”

At the doctor’s departure, Rosalind was left with an unsettling sense of unease.

Walking back to the counter to dispose of the jar and note, she glanced at the clock. Bloody hell, she had hours yet before she could lock up the store. Much too much time to worry about possible unsavory repercussions from Fitz’s prodigal past, she thought, nervously fussing with the papers on the counter before her.
Too much
time to concern herself with potentially alarming diseases. Why hadn’t she thought of the risks before she succumbed to his charm? How could she have been so incautious?

Even as she asked herself the questions, she knew why. She’d been tempted like all the women before her—by his dark good looks and flagrant masculinity, by his seductive smile and practiced charm, by the sensational pleasure he dispensed with such facility.

Despite short interruptions by customers that afternoon, the tumult in her brain continued apace—the question of should she or shouldn’t she have succumbed, the more fearsome issue of possible medical problems, the continuous steamy memories of Fitz doing what he did best.

She kept her eye on the clock as she wrote up new orders a short time later, willing the hands to move more quickly as a bored child might. Although longing for the six-o’clock hour had nothing to do with boredom and everything to do with escaping the public eye. She needed time alone to deal with her turbulent, conflicted emotions. She needed the quiet of her apartment to put everything into perspective, to remind herself that she’d had a life before Fitz. A busy, contented life.

Hearing the shop door open, she looked up and was shocked out of her musing. There he was, as if conjured him up from her imagination.

“What are
you
doing here? ” she tartly asked, his casual appearance annoying. Particularly when her own feelings were in anarchy.

Fitz quickly checked to see if she was picking up anything heavy to heave at him and was pleased to see nothing but the weightiness of her scowl. “I told myself to stay away, but as you see, I couldn’t,” he said, opening his arms in a brief gesture of demur. “I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner tonight? Anywhere you like.” He was offering her carte blanche, knowing full well they would likely meet friends of his. But no more than he’d scrutinized why he’d come here after Clarissa’s, he ignored the issue of his friends. It was about casual sex, he told himself, and nothing more. Why shouldn’t he treat her like any other lover?

Instead of politely accepting his invitation, Rosalind gave him a hard, gimlet-eyed look. “How could you have a doctor call on me? I might very well have been embarrassed in front of my customers!”

“I doubt it. Hutchinson would have warned her about the need for discretion. Did you like her? ”

“Do you actually care?” she shot back, irritated by his cool composure, by his exquisite pale linen suit that cost a fortune, by the fact that he felt no compunction about blatantly interfering in her life. “Admit, the only reason you had her sent over was to make sure nothing curtailed your libertine pleasures. And speaking of libertine”—she jabbed her finger at him—“if you gave me some ghastly disease, so help me God, I’ll do you in somehow!”

“Relax,” he said smoothly, undeterred by her threats. “I don’t have any diseases. Believe me, I’m probably more phobic than you about contracting something that might kill me.” His smile flashed, quicksilver and waggish. “Consider, I have much more to lose than you.”

She should have taken issue with his comparison, but she was so relieved, she unintentionally smiled. Not willing to so easily absolve him from his past sins, she hastened to scowl again. “Everything isn’t about money, Groveland.”

“After our rather intimate relationship, feel free to call me Fitz.” He chose not to argue about the seasoned orthodoxy concerning the virtues of wealth. “And if you don’t mind, I won’t address you as Mrs. St. Vincent unless we’re out in public.”

“You needn’t worry. I shan’t be going out in public with you again,” she acerbically returned. “Last night at the Turner exhibit was more than enough embarrassment for me.”

He bowed with practiced grace. “Please, accept my apologies.” Not that he hadn’t apologized to her lavishly and unstintingly at Mertenside last night.

“It’s a little late for apologies.” She wasn’t in a reasonable mood. He was much too blasé, too familiar as well with making amends to women and being forgiven. At base, too inexcusably privileged to understand ordinary mortals. His emerald watch fob alone would feed a family for years.

“Come to dinner with me. You set the rules.”

Certainly that was capitulation—or suave charm, more like. Nevertheless, perhaps for purely practical reasons, she should consider taking Mrs. Beecham’s suggestion and put herself out to please the Duke of Groveland. On the other hand, Mrs. Beecham might be shocked to learn how very far she’d
already
put herself out for him.

Although, that’s not what Mrs. Beecham had meant.

And that’s not what this was about.

Even with pleasure and practicality in the balance, in the cold light of day reaching a decision wasn’t difficult. “Thank you for the invitation, but no.” She couldn’t afford to be seen with a man of his lascivious reputation. She couldn’t afford the scandal. A widow with a small business wasn’t allowed a single misstep. The Turner exhibit notwithstanding, of course.

“Then I’ll have my chef come over and cook for us.” Fitz suddenly recalled her austere kitchen. “Or why don’t I have dinner brought over instead? ”

“Why don’t I end this conversation,” Rosalind said, determined not to be seduced by a man who regarded sex as a form of amusement and herself as a temporary diversion. Someone who would likely forget her name in a fortnight. “I’m too sore in any event—even more so than last night,” she lied, intent on discouraging him. She gave him a lowering look. “As a matter of fact”—she picked up the small jar from the counter—“
your
doctor left me some salve for my affliction. So don’t bother yourself tonight. I’m hors de combat.”

He smiled faintly. “I was just suggesting dinner.”

“As I recall, you said something about champagne last night and didn’t mean it for a second.”

“I certainly did.” His tone was bland; censorious women he’d dealt with before. “Can I help it if you changed your mind? ”

“I’d appreciate it if you
did
help even if I change my mind,” she perversely said.

He grinned at recall of her insatiable appetite for sex. “So I’m supposed to be the sensible one.”

“I suppose that’s asking too much of a rake,” she retorted. “Of course it is,” she said, answering her own question. “So I shall be the sensible one tonight. Kindly close the door when you leave.”

“Five hundred pounds says I won’t make the first advance.”

“I’m not betting with you. For one thing, I don’t have five hundred.”

“I’m just saying I can abstain if you can.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Then take the bet. You’ll be richer for it.”

“I’m not betting with you. You’re totally unscrupulous.”

He was more than willing to take the blame for their mutual passions if it would serve his cause. “You’re right, forgive me. I’ll turn over a new leaf, I promise. I’ll be virtue itself.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you doing this? ”

He would have liked to think it was for sex, but it didn’t look as though sex was on the menu and yet he was still interested. “God knows,” he honestly replied. Then he smiled. “Perhaps it’s the challenge.”

“Here’s a challenge for you.” Her voice was cool. Everything was a game with Fitz. Curiously, she’d been hoping for an answer based on earnest feelings. Which only proved that she wasn’t cut out for the fast life. “Go without something you want for a change.”

“Something being you.”

“Yes, me in all my fascinating guises,” she lightly asserted, taking pleasure in Fitz’s mutinous expression. “Consider me the one who got away.”

“What if you didn’t get away?” A gentle query despite his moody gaze.

“But I already have. I’ll be quite alone tonight, although I’m sure you won’t lack for female companionship.”

A predatory gleam came into his eyes. “What if I already found the female I want? ”

“If that was directed at me, I doubt your suit would be persuasive,” Rosalind said, overconfident and naive about men who considered themselves exempt from ordinary rules of conduct.

“Surely you could use five hundred pounds.” A man’s argument, blunt and to the point.

“Of course I could, but unlike the other ladies you dally with, I’m not for sale,” she smugly noted.

He was motionless save for a slight arch to his brows. “Everyone’s for sale.”