Gorgeous As Sin

a modicum of self-possession.

“If you please, Groveland,” she said, her words still faintly breathy. Warning herself to get hold of her senses, she dipped her head in his direction and added more lucidly, “Do follow me.”

Tantalized by her shapely form on display beneath the simplicity of her clinging gown, captivated by the heated moment when their eyes had met, only too aware of her jasmine scent in his nostrils, Fitz was in the mood to follow her anywhere at all.

Which meant his plans for the evening were falling nicely into place.

She was willing even if she didn’t know it.

The point was, he did.

Her slender, curvaceous figure was equally enticing from the rear, her gliding walk, the gentle sway of her hips pure temptation. The radical chic of her gown offered the merest sop to convention. She might as well have been naked beneath the sleek medieval-style dress reminiscent of Rossetti’s paintings.

Hopefully she soon would be.

He glanced at his wristwatch. Merde. He’d have to play the gentleman for some time yet.

And so he did, listening politely as she guided him around the exhibit, making the appropriate responses to the work shown him, never overstepping the bounds of politesse. In short, presenting a completely different persona than he had earlier that day. However, he liked that she blushed if he held her glance a moment too long, and he also liked that her manner toward him softened as they wandered the exhibit.

The space was relatively small, though, so afterward, when he took time to speak to the various artists either in Rosalind’s company or alone, he was never far from the object of his pursuit. Including the time Miss Baldwin cornered him and commenced pressing her suit with vigor. Pressing her substantial bosom against his chest as well with complete disregard for their audience.

“People are looking, sweetheart,” he murmured, keeping his hands to himself, not wishing to openly push her away for fear of embarrassing her.

“I don’t care,” she purred, rubbing against him, the lace ruffle on her low decolletage suddenly catching on one of his pearl studs.

“Ah, but you should care, dearest,” he added under his breath, trying to detach the lace without tearing it. Oh, Christ-Mrs. St. Vincent had glanced his way and frowned. “Why don’t we plan on spending some time together tomorrow instead?” he suggested, needing to quickly extricate himself from Miss Baldwin’s clutches and lace ruffles.

Her upturned gaze was suddenly sharp. “When tomorrow?”

“Anytime.” He stepped back. There, finally.

“Are you busy tonight?” A small pettish query at both his excuse and the fact that he’d backed away from her.

“Actually, my mother is coming in on the midnight train,” he lied.

“Your mother?” Her sky blue eyes were skeptical.

“Yes, upon my word.” All’s fair in love and war.

She paused briefly in consideration, then looking at him from under her lashes, coquettishly said, “Very well. The Savoy at four.”

He smiled. “Excellent. Do you like roses?”

“Of course, darling.” She reached out and ran her fingers down the fine silk of his waistcoat in a proprietary gesture. “Red roses,” she murmured in a sultry contralto.

Watching Miss Baldwin walk away, it took him a moment to collect himself, having only narrowly averted a scene. And he well knew she was not a woman who gave up gracefully. After Charlotte’s costume ball, she’d relentlessly pursued him, going so far as to call at his home. Fortunately, the race season had begun at the time and he was rarely in London. As for the Savoy engagement, time enough to deal with that tomorrow. Right now, he had more pleasant prospects in mind.

For the remaining hours of the exhibit, he avoided Miss Baldwin and unostentatiously pursued Mrs. St. Vincent. Rather than offering posies and charming phrases in the usual seduction, Fitz cultivated the lady’s good will instead by purchasing a dozen paintings.

Rosalind was naturally delighted. She was further enchanted by his amiable rapport with her artist friends; she had not thought a peer of Groveland’s consequence could be so unaffected. Particularly after his high-handed arrogance that morning.

But he turned out to be enormously gracious and engaging, even so kind as to send for champagne from his cellar for her guests. Rosalind couldn’t help but be gratified. She found herself reconsidering her previous judgment, viewing him now in a much more favorable light.

After all, the show was a huge success thanks in part to Groveland’s largesse. The women artists she sponsored were considerably more prosperous-again, thanks to the duke.

Sofia, apparently, was in accord when it came to Groveland’s benevolence for she spoke up for him sometime later as they were refilling trays of sweets in Rosalind’s kitchen. “You might want to change your mind about Groveland, darling. Not only is he a generous patron of the arts, he’s really quite lovely in any number of ways. As you may have noticed.”

Rosalind gave her friend an arch look. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from him. Is he not known for his cultivated graces?”

“I’d say his manner is particularly affable to you.”

“Please,” Rosalind said. “He has ulterior motives as you well know.”

“Of course he does, and if I were you, I’d seriously consider taking him up on his offer.”

“Sell my store!” Rosalind tossed a mutinous look her friend’s way. “Never!”

“I meant, darling,” Sofia soothingly replied, “why not spend the night with him and let him gratify your senses? He is in great demand for all the right reasons-very large reasons, I’ve heard.”

“For heaven’s sake, Sofia!”

“Some say he posed for Zeus in Noland’s Rape of Danae,” Sofia went on undeterred, Rosalind’s rosy flush indicating interest-whether she realized it or not. “Have you seen the painting?” Sofia’s pale brows rose in signal hyperbole. “Very impressive male anatomy.”

“I rather think the correspondent from Country Life will be taking advantage of Groveland’s impressive anatomy tonight,” Rosalind said with a little sniff.

Sofia looked up from the petit fours she was placing in neat rows on a tray. “I think it bothers you that she might.”

“It certainly does not!”

“Please, I’ve know you too long. Be honest-it does.”

“Well if it does, it shouldn’t,” Rosalind crisply retorted.

“Yorkshire rules? Come, darling, you’re in London now. There aren’t any rules when it comes to passion. Here it’s strictly about self-indulgence or better yet,” she added with a wink, “overindulgence.”

“I’m not interested in passion or indulgence of any kind,” Rosalind firmly said, as if a resolute delivery would translate to an equal decisiveness in her mind.

“Of course you are,” Sofia calmly returned. “Despite your protests. So why not indulge in the breathless joys of passion? And who better than Groveland to offer you those pleasures?”

Rosalind smiled tolerantly at her friend; how many times had they covered this subject in the course of her widowhood? “While you may embrace such breathless sensibilities, my life is about customers and sales, book orders and events like this. But should the time ever come when I’m in the grip of your thrilling emotions, you can be sure I’ll consider gratifying them.”

“Perhaps later tonight,” Sofia slyly murmured.

“No, not tonight.” Rosalind placed the last strawberry tart in place and picked up the tray. “Now enough nonsense. Let’s see if we can sell another painting.”

As a matter of fact, several more paintings were eventually sold, and by eleven the gallery guests were departing, the tarts and petit fours were all eaten, the champagne drunk, and a sense of an evening well spent pervaded the air.

Groveland was standing beside Rosalind as the clock struck the hour.