Gorgeous as Sin (6 page)

“I don’t know,” Rosalind objected politely,
her
voice of reason still operating. “It
is
late.”

“How long will it take to drink one glass?” Sofia coaxed, intent on Rosalind taking advantage of Groveland’s obvious interest when her dearest friend had been celibate too long. “One little drink, darling,” she cajoled, “to celebrate the success of the show and my increased fortune.”

Since Sofia’s good fortune was due to Groveland’s numerous purchases, Rosalind relented. Or told herself she did because of that. “Very well. One drink.”

The die was cast.

Not that Rosalind knew until later.

But Sofia did.

And Fitz did.

In fact, he knew with such certainty that he literally checked his watch as if marking the time when he’d carried the day. Or night as it were. As for his obsession with Mrs. St. Vincent, by morning he’d have had his fill of her and he could get on with his life.

Retiring to the back of the store, the two couples found seats on worn sofas Rosalind kept there for customers of her free library who needed a bed for the night. The couches’ frayed frieze upholstery and scuffed mahogany trim, the stacks of books littering the floor, the night sounds of the city drifting in through the open window were all irrelevant to the cozy group drinking champagne and exchanging postmortem comments on the show.

Rosalind was surprised at Groveland’s comprehensive understanding of the newest trends in modern art. She felt quite out of her element as the three others discussed the Paris and London art shows of recent years: the artists of note, those on the rise, the avant-garde styles most likely to endure. She realized that Groveland had a life beyond his scandalous reputation; she understood, too, that Sofia might have been right. Perhaps she was pleased after all that the
Country Life
siren had not taken Groveland away.

But as quickly as she acknowledged his sexual attraction, she recognized how out of character it would be to yield to her impulses. She was not a free spirit like Sofia. Furthermore, she reflected, ticking off additional reasons to reject the infamous Groveland, her capitulation would mean less than nothing to a man who, according to rumor, had slept with untold women.

The unspeakable thought stunned and electrified her senses.

Sent a shiver up her spine.

He noticed and turning to her, murmured solicitously, “Would you like my jacket?”

“No, no . . . I’m fine . . . really,” Rosalind stammered, quickly looking away from the tantalizing query in his gaze.

“You’re sure.”

He knows
, she thought.
He can tell.
She forced a smile and said in a scrupulously neutral tone, “It must have been a draft from the window.”

Fortunately, at that moment Sofia asked him a question about the Royal Academy that initiated a lengthy conversation. And by the time Sofia had fully vented her myriad resentments on the stupid old men controlling the annual judging, Rosalind had composed her restive emotions.

Before long, the champagne exhausted, Sofia rose, took her partner’s hand, and pulled him to his feet. “I don’t know about you,” she said with a wink for Rosalind and Fitz, “but we have better things to do. Right?” Rising on tiptoe, she brushed Arthur Godwin’s cheek with a kiss.

“Absolutely.” He grinned. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting.”

“Since last year at Michaelmas when I met you in Chelsea,” Sofia matter-of-factly declared.

“Before,” he softly returned. He was slender and fine-featured, handsome in the style of the first Duke of Buckingham.

Sofia’s eyes widened. “Where?”

“Three years ago. You were in a box at Covent Garden.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about it,” Sofia said, smiling. “Ciao, darlings,” she cheerfully proclaimed, and waving to Rosalind and Fitz, she pulled her admirer from the room.

An awkward silence fell.

Skilled at putting women at ease, Fitz spoke first. “Miss Eastleigh is vastly talented.” He smiled faintly. “She’s also somewhat of a modern woman.”

Rosalind blushed. “Very much so.”

Another small silence ensued.

“I should go.” A politesse; perhaps not. Nothing was as it should be tonight.

There was the veriest pause and then, resisting what were clearly perilous desires, Rosalind said, “Yes, it’s quite late.” She came to her feet. “Thank you again for your patronage.”

He hadn’t been rebuffed by a woman since... actually, never. But Mrs. St. Vincent was standing very straight, her hands clenched at her sides, and even knowing she was suppressing her desires, he had no intention of forcing himself on her. He’d never forced himself on a woman, nor was he about to begin. Particularly when he wasn’t even sure he should be here.

Equivocation scented the air; it had all evening.

Rising from the couch, he sketched her an elegant bow. “Thank you for your hospitality. My men will come round in the morning for the paintings.” Turning, he walked away, the evening not completely wasted; he’d added some splendid paintings to his collection. More important, Mrs. St. Vincent had been restored to her rightful place in his life. Someone at cross purposes with him in business and nothing more.

Halfway through the store, the front door in sight, he heard her. Or had he? The sound was so faint he may have imagined her voice.
Be sensible
, he said to himself. But he turned back—like a dog in heat, he thought, thin-skinned and moody.

She was standing well distant in the gallery, the colorful paintings at her back, her hands still clenched at her sides. But she said, “Stay,” this time clearly enough that there was no misunderstanding.

Her breathing was rapid, her lush breasts rising and falling in the most flaunting display; her skin was flushed, and even across the breadth of the store it was obvious she was sexually aroused.

He suddenly felt as if he were being offered a rare prize—this from a man indisposed to flights of fancy, a man who’d always considered undue emotion a weakness. Had he drunk too much? But even as he considered the possibility, he was closing the distance between them. And whatever impulse drove him, when he stopped before her and saw the tremulous desire shining in her eyes, he understood that he was a very lucky man.

That and nothing more.

No thoughts of property negotiations or winning entered his mind. No further nebulous uncertainties about subversive emotion clouded his thinking. Not even a scintilla of sexual triumph registered in his brain. All he felt was an exaggerated sense of pleasure.

“Thank you for calling me back.” His smile was very close, urbanity stripped from his voice. “I’m extremely happy and I don’t exactly know why.”

“I know less why I called to you,” she answered so softly he had to lean in to hear her.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you did.” Simple words simply spoken, a sense of inevitability so sweet he could taste it.

She was agitated, uncertain.

He knew better than to make a sudden move and frighten her.

Then she swayed forward an infinitesimal distance; to anyone not involved in the fevered encounter, the movement would have gone unnoticed. “I’m very pleased you came tonight,” she whispered.

“Then we both are.” A velvet soft utterance freely given, knotty issues dismissed.

She knew he wasn’t alluding to the art show or the paintings he’d purchased, and drawing in a small breath, she wondered how long it had been since she’d lain with a man. Or more to the point, a man of unparalleled physical perfection and immoderate charm, a man for whom she felt a fierce, wild passion unlike anything she’d ever known.

“Perhaps kismet actually exists,” he offered with a smile.

Her eyes flared wide. “Do you think so?”

He was about to say no, but she looked so genuinely artless, he didn’t have the heart. “I do.”

“You’re not just saying that.”

“No.” A kindness not a lie. “People more clever than I subscribe to the theory. And consider how many thousands of years the concept has shaped people’s destiny.”

“So you’re saying destiny is involved tonight.”

By any standard her smile was flirtatious, her uncertainty suddenly replaced by a playful drollery. “All I know is there’s no place I’d rather be,” he said very softly, astonished at the pleasure he felt quite apart from lust.

“Well put, although I suspect you’re better acquainted with these situations than I.”

“Not this particular one.” His brows rose. “I have no explanation.”

She smiled. “How sweet—and generally effective, I expect.”

“On the contrary, I’m quite sincere.” He had no idea why he felt compelled to such frankness when prevarication had always rendered better service in circumstances such as this.

She held his gaze for a second, weighing her preconceived notions against Groveland’s candor. Quickly deciding that truth or pretense mattered little when their desires were so clearly aligned. “I suppose,” she said, perhaps just a trifle briskly for the world of dalliance, “we shouldn’t just stand here.”

A teasing light instantly warmed his eyes. “I know I’d rather not.” He couldn’t accuse her of coyness. She was so obviously unfamiliar with the game, it was going to be like deflowering a virgin.

Not that he had personal knowledge, having always avoided virgins. But Mrs. St. Vincent was definitely an innocent when it came to amorous play. Of that he was certain.

“Should we go upstairs?”

But she’d balled her fists again when speaking as though facing the hangman instead of a night of pleasure, so he decided kisses might be in order first for the widow. “In a minute,” he murmured, and dipping his head, he kissed her gently in reassurance and even more gently placed his hands on her shoulders and slowly drew her close.

Allowing her ample time to change her mind should she wish to.

But when her soft, warm breasts first came in contact with his chest, she didn’t pull away, and as his erection immediately sprang to life, surged upward, and pressed into her stomach, she didn’t flinch.

Instead, she gasped—in astonishment and wonder. Had he known . . .

But he didn’t. And he debated how long he would be obliged to play the modest lover and restrict himself to kisses. Sweet as they were, he thought with an equivalent astonishment.

But suddenly, she threw her arms around his neck, melted into his body, and breathed against the warmth of his mouth, “Forgive me for being so brazen, but you make me feel
ever
so good . . .”

“I’m glad,” he whispered, sliding his hands downward, cupping her bottom, holding her hard against his cock.

Another little gasp, and she breathed whisper soft, “You’re . . .
enormous
!”

Suppressing his impulse to say, “The better to fuck you with,” he kissed her less sweetly, with the novel urgency Mrs. St. Vincent inspired even as he searched for the door to her upstairs apartment. Finally—
there
—stairs were visible through a half-opened door in the far corner. Quickly lifting his head, he swept her up in his arms and said with a smile, “I’m taking you upstairs. Feel free to stop me at any time.” A politesse only; God himself couldn’t have stopped him.

“I won’t,” she whispered, clinging to his neck, her words excusing him from possible sacrilege. “I want you too much.”

“I want you more,” he said with an easy smile.

“Impossible.”

“I doubt it.” The lady smiling up at him was a restorative to his jaded soul, tremulous and needy, dew fresh and beautiful.

Her brows rose. “Care to make a wager?”

He almost took her right there, the possibility of dueling lechery racheting up his libido another ten notches. “Anything you like, darling,” he said, controlling his lust with effort.

“Do you feel lucky?”

He laughed. “Damned right.”

“Me, too.” Tonight was serendipity, pure and simple, she thought, reveling in the blissful illogic. After a lifetime devoted to undeviating steadiness, she was experiencing a degree of covetousness beyond the perimeters of memory.

The rapturous feel of his hard, muscled body against hers, the intoxicating, soul-stirring passion warming her body and soul were unutterably joyous. Perhaps Sofia was right; perhaps it was time she began to live again or
finally
live or
flamboyantly
live.
Or resist such base urges
, a muted voice of reason obstinately submitted.

But muted voices were easily brushed aside when under the spell of high-flying lust and fevered desire. And who better than Groveland to satisfy her salacious urges—a man who was a byword for vice?

And while she’d not yet experienced the full extent of his sexual renown, the hard, splendid length of his erection against her thigh suggested satisfaction on a grand scale.

Chapter 8

I
CAN PERFECTLY well walk upstairs,” Rosalind said as Fitz began mounting the stairs.

“But why should you?”

Her first thought shouldn’t have been that Edward never could have carried her up the stairs so effortlessly. Or at all. He wasn’t tall and powerful like Groveland, nor corded with muscle. Shameful thought; why was she comparing her husband to Groveland? And then, as if the devil were whispering in her ear, she heard Mrs. Beecham’s voice saying,
You’re not getting any younger
, and she found herself thinking,
I deserve this.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Fitz murmured, aware of the lady’s reflective silence.

“Do you think I’m old? Oh Lord, pretend I didn’t say that,” she quickly declared, blushing furiously.

In the dim stairwell lit by a single electric light sconce at the top of the stairs, he glanced down and was charmed to see the most fetching, rosy-cheeked mortification. Mrs. St. Vincent was a rare delight; no aristocratic lady he knew would have called attention to her age. “I think you’re absolutely gorgeous,” he murmured, smiling, “and what—eighteen or so?”

She laughed, a bright silvery sound. “You’re a darling.”

“Wait,” he said with a grin. “It gets better.”

“So I’ve heard. Sofia tells me you’re celebrated for your expertise.”

“Hardly,” he modestly replied. “But I’ll contrive to amuse you in whatever fashion you prefer.”

“Is this about amusement?”

Uncertain of her tone, he gracefully replied, “It’s about whatever you want.”

“Because you’re versatile.”

There was that trifling pettishness again. “No, because I very much wish to please you. You’re quite exceptional; this evening is exceptional. Nothing about
this
—
us
—is about versatility or amusement. I apologize for my choice of words. You’ve been a constant in my thoughts today.”

Her expression turned guarded. “Because you want my store.”

“No.” He didn’t even take issue with her comment. “Because I find you fascinating.”

“And you want what you want.”

“Good God, don’t fight with me.” He smiled. “You don’t know how much I’m out of my element.”

She drew in a small shaky breath. “We both are.”

“Then we’ll navigate this unknown terrain together. You lead and I’ll follow.”

She couldn’t help but smile at his flattering candor. “It might be wiser if you lead and I follow.”

Since he rarely contradicted a lady when it came to making love, he whispered, “Whatever you say.” Although, he rather thought she was right. Having reached the top of the stairs, he crossed the small landing, walked through the open door into a parlor illuminated by another simple light fixture, and halted. “Which way? Over there?” He nodded toward a closed door on the far side of the sparsely furnished room.

“Oh dear.”

Looking down, Fitz met her wide-eyed gaze. “Is something wrong?” There was no mistaking the doubt in her voice.

“I don’t know—maybe . . . probably. Oh Lord, now I’m not sure.”

Faced with such tremulous reluctance, he debated his course of action. Toying with a squeamish woman could turn out to be a disaster. Sophisticated females with a flair for the game were more his style—like Miss Baldwin. She’d been more than willing.

And yet, there was no question it was Mrs. St. Vincent he wanted.

Notoriously self-indulgent, and highly motivated, he decided the lady’s uncertainties were open to interpretation. She clearly hadn’t ordered him to
put me down this instant and leave
. A good sign.

So, attuned as he was to the nuances of female acquiescence, he carried her toward what looked to be a bedroom door. Crossing the small parlor in a few strides, he shoved open the door with his shoulder and stepped over the threshold.

Rosalind shivered—in anticipation at this point, Groveland’s celebrated reputation was one of excess.

“Are you cold?” he gently asked, coming to a halt, although he knew better. Aroused women were not without precedence in his life.

“No, quite the opposite.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” he said.

A brief flash of amusement shone in her eyes. “I’m hoping you delight
me
as well.”

He laughed. “I shall strive to fulfill your hopes.”

“Do you ever get complaints?”

His look of surprise was quickly shuttered. “Not about this,” he said.

She shouldn’t ask personal questions. Even unfamiliar as she was with dalliance, she knew better. But she found herself intrigued by the man behind the prodigal reputation. “What complaints do you get?” she impetuously asked, the words coming out in a rush.

He looked at her so oddly, she immediately said, “Forgive my curiosity, but you’re a constant subject of the scandal sheets.”

“Does that interest you?” His voice had taken on a cynical edge. Was her innocence a pose? Was she looking for something out of the ordinary tonight, like the others?

His gaze was cool. “I apologize again,” she quickly said. “I’m new to this.”

Illogically, he felt a sense of relief. Maybe he was turning into a romantic. Or maybe Mrs. St. Vincent was as lush a female as he’d ever had the good fortune to bed and he should stop overintellectualizing her motives and his. “New is good,” he smoothly observed, and began walking toward the bed.

As he moved, the solid length of his erection nudged her right hip and bottom, sending a heated shimmer of excitement racing along every impatient little nerve ending in her body. She’d been aroused for some time—if she was honest with herself, since he’d walked into the exhibition. Without so much as a word or gesture from him, she’d immediately turned dewy wet in readiness. It was astonishing how he could tempt her to such madness with so little effort—with none. Her wanting him was a kind of extravagant delirium. “No, no, not there,” she blurted out, wrenched from her musing as he stopped by her bed.

Since at this stage of their acquaintance, politesse was required, he swiftly surveyed the small room, searching for some other piece of furniture or surface capable of holding them both. In the light from the open doorway, the shadowed interior revealed a flimsy dressing table, a too-high chest of drawers, a narrow fragment of carpet before the hearth, the shabby interior provoking a sudden, inexplicable resentment toward Edward St. Vincent. How could he gamble away his money and force his wife to live like this?

“The chair perhaps.”

Her voice intruded into his rancor, and casting aside his irrational concern, he said with a smile, “The chair will do nicely.” Or at least until such a time as he could coax Mrs. St. Vincent into her former marriage bed.

Another first for a man who was more familiar than many aristocratic husbands with their marriage beds.

But then tonight was alive with firsts. Most significant, his outrageous interest in a woman who had been, at best, inhospitable to him only a few hours ago. Perhaps the challenge of overcoming Mrs. St. Vincent’s initial distaste fueled his lust.

Or maybe the lady’s ripe opulence struck some primal nerve.

Or maybe the whys didn’t matter when it came right down to it—only the fucking.

While Fitz was engaged in a novel introspective, Rosalind’s troublesome voice of reason had inconveniently resurfaced and was taking issue with her having sex with the man who was out to steal her property.

Wait, wait,
her fevered passions swiftly intervened, bargaining frantically.
Couldn’t tonight be in the way of a research exercise?

Of course.
There. All was quickly reconciled. Lust triumphant.

With her voice of reason appeased, Groveland’s enormous erection featuring largely in her swift decision, she looked forward to a night of sumptuous carpe diem pleasure. Sofia was right; she’d been celibate too long. “I feel I should apologize again—about the bed this time,” she murmured. “I’m just not ready to—”

“No need to explain,” Fitz interposed, averse to hearing some explanation about her husband. Not that anything—including dead husbands—was likely to dissuade his aching cock from its target goal. “We’ll sit in the chair instead,” he pleasantly said, dropping into the wing-back chair, disposing her on his lap, and shifting to plan B.

The hard imprint of his erection instantly made contact with her throbbing vulva in the most delectable fashion, and Rosalind shifted her bottom slightly to better absorb the wildly intoxicating rapture. “You—this . . . makes me feel”—she smiled up at him—“decidedly wanton.”

Lounging back in the chair, Fitz’s mouth twitched. “Naturally, that pleases me.”

His cool equanimity was perversely sexual, as if he had but to wait and women always came to him. “Such insouciance, Groveland,” she said, a small heat in her eyes. “It almost makes me angry.”

“But not quite, I’d wager.”

“Nor could you get up and leave,
I’d
wager,” she countered, not as cooly as he, but as pointed.

“No.” Not so cool that time, an edginess in his voice.

They were both restive under their baffling urges, not entirely sure why they were here, why they were doing what they were doing, why they couldn’t just walk away.

Then less practiced at the game, less jaded, or rather, not jaded at all, Rosalind capitulated first. “I don’t know why I’m taking issue with your expertise when look”—she held out her quivering hand—“I’m trembling for want of you.”

“Why don’t I take care of that.”

His careless offer of orgasmic pleasure smacked of arrogance. But it also incited piquant little vibrations in every seething, palpitating secret recess of her body. “Naturally, that pleases me,” she murmured, oversweet and smiling.

“Bitch,” he said, but he was smiling, too.

“
In heat
, thanks to you. How do you do it?”

In the usual way
, he could have said, seduction a well-rehearsed, predictable game. “Why don’t we find out?” he said, husky and low, slipping his hand under the soft silk of her skirt, gently easing her thighs apart to offer the lady a short prelude as it were to the coming drama. Her muscles tensed as he brushed aside the slight barrier of her drawers, although some charitable foreplay was obviously needed after a flinch like hers. “Shut your eyes and think of England, darling,” he whispered, his voice gently teasing.

“Sorry, it’s been a
very
long time . . .”

He couldn’t possibly relate, this man who’d been standing stud since adolescence. But he was right about the wooing required to see that the lady’s body and sensibilities were eased into the night’s play. “Should I talk you through the first time, ply you with kisses, recite Ovid,” he sportively offered.

She was about to ask him if he was ever serious, but he’d slipped his fingers into her silken flesh and suddenly she was having trouble thinking about anything other than degrees of pleasure. Her head dropped onto his shoulder, her eyes closed, and she understood that whatever reservations she might have had about Groveland paled to insignificance against his deft skill. The man was a virtuoso—touching her exactly where she wished to be touched, deeply, deeply, with the lightest of strokes, as if he could read her mind, her body, her nerve endings, her most rarified fantasies. He was incredibly gentle as well, something she wouldn’t have expected from so large a man. Most important, he somehow knew that she liked the rosebud of her clitoris be given a good measure of attention—and he did.

Perhaps a libertine had his advantages
, she thought, floating on her blissful cloud. He was much better at this than she.

He was so much better in fact that she was beginning to believe in bewitchment or if not that fanciful illusion, the ravishing hysteria engulfing her entire body in a steamy, rapturous exultation might be closer to heaven on Earth. Or perhaps something even better, she decided a few moments later as her orgasm began to slowly swell into a small seething rampage, assaulting her senses with increasing fury, spreading with unchecked speed—quickly, too quickly. She whimpered, helpless against the climactic momentum, wanting the exquisite rapture to last. Then she cried out as the storm and fury overwhelmed and ravished her, as the feel of his fingers buried deep inside her triggered voluptuous, overdrawn waves of pleasure, as he transported her to a paradise of his making for long, long, euphoric moments.

He didn’t move while she was in the throes of orgasm.

He knew better.

When at last her body stilled and her eyelids fluttered opened, even then he waited until she smiled at him and whispered in languid content, “Thank you. I really needed that.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, although her hard nipples and plump breasts pressing against the fine charmeuse of her gown, her luscious bottom warming his cock, and her even more luscious cunt warming his fingers gave him potent reason to believe that she’d be needing more.

Fortunately, he was here to help her.

And himself. Withdrawing his fingers, he wiped them on his pant leg. “It takes the edge off doesn’t it?” he drawled, well versed in degrees of lust.

“It did considerably more than that. You’re
very
good.”

“In contrast to?” Why it mattered he had no idea. But then nothing about his response to Mrs. St. Vincent made sense.

“To nothing. You just made me feel . . . incredibly wonderful.”

Her frankness constantly confounded him. In the brittle world in which he moved, frankness was considered a parvenue gaucherie. But he responded with an easy grace. “My pleasure,” he said.

Hers more than his, Rosalind pleasantly decided, since he fulfilled her every erotic fantasy . . . any woman’s, she didn’t doubt. He was a splendid male animal, physically powerful, handsome, with a huge erection that was impossible to ignore and yet he somehow did. Another virtuoso skill perhaps—which notion immediately evoked a host of licentious images starring the Duke of Groveland. “What if I were to say I was looking for adventure tonight?” she inquired, driven by rash impulse, her newly awakened libido, and the very real possibility she’d not have this opportunity again.