“Only at first, if I recall,” he pleasantly replied.
Maybe it was his insouciance that was most annoying or his unconscious arrogance, or the way he shamelessly assumed no woman could resist him. Which latter fact might also pertain to her but was nevertheless irritating.
Whatever the cause, she came up out of the seat in a swift lunging attack and slapped his smug face. Hard. Instantly mortified, shocked at her childish actions, she dropped back into her seat, flushing in embarrassment.
He took no notice, other than to growl, “Christ, watch it. You almost took out my eye.”
A distinct casualness underlay his words, and she wondered at a man who could be so imperturbable under duress. She shouldn’t have found it admirable. She certainly shouldn’t have remembered how he’d growled last night in the explosive throes of passion, or how he’d groaned deep in his throat as he climaxed.
How his hard muscles flexed under her hands as he made love to her with virtuoso skill and brought her to screaming orgasm.
Oh God-what was she doing?
She was going straight to hell if she continued this train of thought.
It took her a moment to restrain her wayward passions and a moment more to be able to speak in a normal tone. “I’m so very sorry. Ordinarily, I would never even think of slapping anyone.” She exhaled softly. “You provoke me in any number of ways. Admit, what you are doing is not business as usual for most people.”
He chose not to further offend her by saying he did as he pleased because he wasn’t most people. “You’re right. I’m sorry as well. It’s been an odd evening. Too many people perhaps,” he said, deliberately neglecting specifics like Clarissa and Flora’s irritating skirmish and Harry’s interference. “I’ll make a bargain with you. Come with me to my villa and I promise to play the role of Lancelot if you like-pure of heart and saintly.”
“Why should I trust you? ”
His lashes drifted lower and he surveyed her with his cool grey gaze. “The scandal sheets aside, I rarely lie.” He smiled. “With the exception of the occasional perjury in the heat of passion. Since we have agreed to dispense with passion tonight, the unromantic truth will hold sway.”
Why was she suddenly chagrined?
He was offering her what any self-respecting woman would want. Conversation, pleasant company, a strict propriety. Why was she disappointed?
“You mean it? ” An ambiguous query like her equivocal state of mind.
“Word of honor,” he easily replied, knowing he had qualified his offer with the phrase
She smiled. “A glass of champagne sounds very nice.”
Her smile warmed his heart, a shocking revelation he quickly brushed aside. Reverting to type, he pleasantly said, “When the moon comes up over the river, the scene is quite magical.” He grinned. “And I’m not prone to whimsy. It’s just picturesque I suppose-the gently flowing river, the moonlight filtered through the willows, an all- encompassing peace. Unlike the city.”
“I do have to be home before midnight in order to open the store on time.”
“Whatever you say,” he amiably replied. “And thank you. I appreciate your company.” He actually meant it, the difference between Mrs. St. Vincent and Clarissa or Flora profound. It made him wonder if his prodigality would have been better served outside the world of the beau monde.
He certainly couldn’t accuse Mrs. St. Vincent of the sameness that characterized all the women of fashion he knew.
Chapter 19
FITZ’S VILLA WAS a picturesque sight as the carriage rolled up a slight incline to the entrance. Rosalind admired the elegant facsimile of the Petit Trianon situated on the crest of a hill and wondered what ancestor had been enamored of French architecture. The charming villa was surrounded by an equally charming Capability Brown landscape of specimen trees, verdant lawns, and colorful flowers; glimpses of the Thames were visible in the distance.
As though intrinsic to such a noble display of wealth, a host of servants rushed out to greet them as the carriage came to a stop on the graveled drive.
Fitz casually waved to his staff as he stepped out, then turned to help Rosalind alight. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “I am.”
“Perhaps a little,” she murmured, distracted by the splendor of her surroundings. Light gleamed from every window, two tall bronze torchieres stood on either side of the wide bank of stairs, the pale limestone of the exterior shimmered in the twilight, the scent of jasmine pungent on the air. “Jasmine-lovely,” she said with a smile.
“That’s why I like your perfume. It reminds me of Mertenside. I like it here. Come, we’ll say hello to the staff and then walk through the house to the river.”
He introduced her to his majordomo and in general to the others lined up on the drive. She watched Fitz chat with several of his retainers as they slowly made their way to the house and was surprised at the casualness of his manner. No arrogant peer of the realm here, only a man comfortable with his staff.
As they walked through twin bronze doors, held open by two footmen, Fitz turned to his majordomo, who was waving flunkeys before them to open further doors. “Tell Hector we could use a little something to eat. He needn’t go out of his way. Something simple. And champagne, Chandler. The ’73.”
Rosalind gazed with awe at the rooms they passed through, the decor lifted wholesale from Versailles, although the rococo furniture was oversize, clearly made for a man, while the sumptuous carpets were pure silk and so plush her feet sank into them.
Strangely, the opulent interiors enhanced Fitz’s dark masculinity, the stark contrast between gilt and damask, Chinoiserie wallpaper and graceful furniture only making his strength and virility more conspicuous. Just as a splendid animal outrivaled a trivial display of gilded luxury.
Or a powerful lord minimized his environment.
When they’d walked to the end of an enfilade of rooms and reached the terrace doors, Fitz said, “Thank you, Chandler. That will be all.” And with a faint bow, he offered his arm to Rosalind.
They walked out into the twilight again, strolled down a shallow flight of marble stairs, and set out across a velvety swath of lawn that sloped down to the river.
“It is magical,” Rosalind commented softly, the evening sky still golden on the horizon, the birds making music in the trees, the river slowly flowing by. “The house, the parkland-everything’s so lush and green.”
“Thank you. Mertenside’s my haven from the city.”
“Do you come here often? ”
“As often as I can. Would you like to sit outside or inside?” He indicated a glass summer house on the river bank.
“Outside. I was inside all day.”
“Was the store busy? ” he politely asked.
“Not in the afternoon. It was too hot for anyone to be out.”
“It has been unseasonably warm even for August,” Fitz affably returned, wondering how long it would be before Mrs. St. Vincent would be interested in more than conversation.
Rosalind, in turn, was wondering if she’d again misjudged Groveland. Was he less a rogue than she thought? Was rumor wrong? Could he be a man like any other?
Two bottles of champagne later, Rosalind was thinking of other things. She was wondering in metaphorical terms whether she would allow herself to have her cake and eat it, too. Even though she shouldn’t even be thinking about cake.
Fitz took note of the change in her demeanor-with gratitude.
She laughed freely now, teased him on occasion, and answered his questions without caution. Although he was careful to ask only questions she’d find unexceptional.
It was a proverbial cat-and-mouse game, yet at a more subtle level: the question of who played which role
