Authors: Susan Johnson
Seduction in Mind
SEDUCTION IN MIND
A Bantam Book / August 2001
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2001 by Susan Johnson.
Cover art copyright © 2001 by Alan Ayers.
ISBN 0-553-58254-2
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York,
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Dear Reader,
I'd just purchased a book on the
my
lady in a blue dress and I wished to show everyone her world.
Sam Lennox was intrigued by her as well. In fact, he'd owned a painting of her long before he met her. But once he realized she lived in London, he was intent on knowing her better.
And he always got what he wanted.
Although the manner of that acquisition wasn't without obstacles.
Alexandra, you see, disliked men like Sam Lennox who only amused themselves in ladies' beds.
If you have any questions or comments, you can reach me at
www.susanjohnsonauthor.net
.
Happy reading,
London
, June 1878
"It's the same luscious female," Lord Ranelagh murmured, surveying a painting of a scantily clad odalisque in the
"She had more clothes on in the painting you bought in Paris," the young Earl of Airlie said, his gaze intent on the splendid female form. "It looks as though she's become even more—er—emancipated."
Samuel Lennox, the Viscount Ranelagh, heir to an earldom of great fortune, rich in his own right, cast his friend a skeptical glance. "As if all models aren't bohemian by nature. More to the point—since Leighton's painted her, I wonder if the pretty vixen's in London?"
"Why not ask Leighton? Since the painting's not for sale, he might have a special interest in the model."
"Do you know him?"
"Not personally, but my cousin attends his musicals. I'll have George introduce us."
"Now?"
Edward McDonal frowned. "I thought we were going to the Marlborough Club."
"How long can it take to stop at Leighton's and find out her name? Besides, I want to buy the painting."
"There's a Not for Sale sign prominently displayed under the title," his friend pointed out.
A faint cynicism raised the viscount's dark brows. "Everything's for sale, Eddie. You know that."
An hour later, an imposing butler ushered them into Frederic Leighton's studio, despite the inconvenient hour and the artist's custom to receive by appointment only, despite the fact the artist was working frantically because he was fast losing the sun. The butler knew that Leighton, ever conscious of his wealth and position, particularly now that he'd been knighted, cultivated friendships with the aristocracy.
The room was enormous with rich cornices, piers, friezes of gold, marble, enamel, and mosaics, all color and movement, opulence and luxury. Elaborate bookshelves lined one wall, two huge Moorish arches soared overhead, stained glass windows of an Oriental design were set into the eastern wall, while the north windows under which the artist worked were tall, iron-framed, utilitarian.
Leighton turned from his easel as the men entered, and he greeted them with a smooth urbanity, casting aside his frenzied air with ease, recognizing George Howard with a personal comment and his companions with grace.
Lord Ranelagh hardly took notice of their host, for his gaze was fixed on Leighton's current work—a female nude in a provocative pose, her diaphanous robe lifted over her head. "Very nice, Sir Leighton," he said with a faint nod in the direction of the easel. "The lady's coloring is particularly fine."
"As is the lady. I'm fortunate she dabbles in the arts."
"She lives in London?"
"Some of the time. I could introduce you if you like."
"No, you may not, Frederic. I'm here incognito for this scandalous painting." A lady's amused voice came from the right, and a moment later, Alexandra Ionides emerged from behind a tapestry screen. She was dressed in dark blue silk that set off her skin to perfection, the front of the gown still partially open, her silken flesh that had an alluring warmth about it, as though she'd been in the heat of the sun, quickly disappearing from sight as she closed three sparkling gemstone clasps.
"It's you," the viscount exclaimed softly.
Her eyes were huge, the deepest purple, and her surprise was genuine. "I beg your pardon?"
"Alex, allow me to introduce the Viscount Ranelagh," Leighton said. "My lord, Alexandra Ionides, the Dowager Countess St. Albans and Mrs. Courts."
1
"
Mrs
. Courts?"
"I'm a widow. Both my husbands died." She always enjoyed saying that—for the reaction it caused, for the pleasure it gave her to watch people's faces.
"May I ask how they died?" the viscount inquired, speaking to her with a quiet intensity, as though they were alone in the cavernous room.
"Not in their beds, if that's what you're thinking." She knew of Ranelagh, of his reputation, and thought his question either flippant or cheeky.
"I meant… how difficult it must have been—how distressing. I'm a widower."
"I know." But she doubted he was distressed. The flighty, promiscuous Lady Ranelagh had died in a riding accident, and very opportunely, it was said; her husband was about to either kill her or divorce her.
"Alex and I were just about to sit down to champagne. Would you gentlemen care for a glass?" Leighton gestured toward an alcove decorated with various colorful divans. "I reward myself at the end of a workday," he added with a small, deprecating smile.
A bottle of champagne was already on ice atop a Moroccan-style table, and if Alexandra might have wished to refuse, Leighton had made it impossible. Ranelagh was more than willing, Eddie had never turned down a drink in his adult life, and George Howard, like so many men of his class, had considerable leisure time.
Sam made sure to seat himself beside Alex, a fact she took note of with mild disdain. She disliked men of Ranelagh's stamp who amused themselves in ladies' beds. It seemed a gross self-indulgence, when life offered so much outside the conventional world of aristocratic vice.
"Meeting you this afternoon almost makes me believe in fate," he said softly. "I came here to discover the identity of the exquisite model in Leighton's Academy painting, and here you are."
"Whereas I don't believe in fate at all, Lord Ranelagh, for I came here today with privacy in mind, and here you all are."
He smiled. "And you wish us all to Hades."
"How astute, my lord."
He'd never been offered his conge by a woman before, and rather than take offense, he was intrigued. Willing females he knew by the score. But one such as this… "Maybe if you came to know us—or me—better," he added in a low voice.
Their conversation was apart from the others, their divan offset slightly from the other bright-hued sofas, and the three men opposite them were deep in a heated discussion of the best routes through the Atlas Mountains.
"Let me make this clear, Lord Ranelagh, and I hope tactful as well. I've been married twice; I'm not a novice in the ways of the world. I take my independence very seriously and I'm averse, to put it in the most temperate terms, to men like you, my lord, who find amusement their raison d'être. So I won't be getting to know you better. But thank you for the offer."
Her hair was the most glorious deep auburn, piled atop her head in heavy silken waves, and he wished nothing more at the moment than to free the ruby pins holding it in place and watch it tumble onto her shoulders. "Perhaps some other time," he said, thinking he'd never seen such luscious golden peach skin, nor eyes like hers.
"There won't be another time, my lord."
"If I were a betting man—"
"But you are." Equal to his reputation as a libertine was his penchant for high-stakes betting. It was the talk of London at the moment, for he'd just won fifty thousand on the first race at Ascot yesterday.
