Gorgeous As Sin

Taking note of the time, he said, “It’s getting late. Thank you for a lovely evening.” His smile was practiced, but Mrs. St. Vincent was quite inexplicably redefining his casual regard for the women in his life. She inspired a rare predatory instinct; he disliked the feeling. “I’ll send my men in the morning to collect my paintings.” It had been a mistake to come.

No, don’t go! Rosalind impulsively thought, only to instantly equivocate. Just say goodnight; do not become involved with the much too charming Duke of Groveland.

Who, unfortunately, wanted her store.

It may have been gypsy fate that Sofia walked over at that moment, or random chance or kismet. Or perhaps scheming design. She was clinging to the arm of the Times art critic, who in turn was holding up a bottle of Fitz’s champagne. “If we open this last bottle, will you two have a drink with us?” Sofia brightly inquired. “Since we seem to be the only ones left.”

“I wouldn’t mind a glass,” Fitz heard himself say. So much for reason in the presence of a hot-spur libido.

“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.

Is he really that good?

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