Seduction in Mind

She shouldn't be so shallow as to fall under the spell of Ranelagh's quintessential charm and dark handsomeness, Alex thought, trying not to stare at him. If she chose to bed him, it should be for reasons other than mere physical attraction. She'd always considered herself an intelligent woman, unmoved by the superficiality of the beau monde, and now she was allowing herself to be charmed by the most profligate libertine in London because she found him overwhelmingly attractive. Such a response didn't bear close scrutiny, and she deliberately set aside her unsettling thoughts.

Hadn't she always prided herself on living her life as she chose?

Hadn't she railed against the binding strictures that limited female options?

So she was physically attracted. What was the harm in that? She found herself relaxing at the obviousness of the answer, and when she said 'You can't really care much about painting, Ranelagh; why don't you tell me instead of your racers,' her smile was open and warm.

'Feeling better, are we?'

'I've put all my demons to rest. I don't suppose you have any.'

'Honestly, no. And I enjoy hearing of your work. I've never known a woman painter before. Does your family approve?'

'As much as I require. They're rather more traditional than I. Does your family approve of you?'

His mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. 'They gave up any thought of approval long ago. They're conservative in their ways, so I suppose we've agreed to disagree.'

She knew an uncle's legacy had made him a wealthy man, so he wasn't subject to his family's whims. 'You don't see much of your family, then?'

'My brother and I are close. The best of friends, actually, and he has children, should I not remarry.'

Without thinking, she said, 'The death of your wife must have been a shock.'

His gaze narrowed and a chill invaded his eyes. 'Would you like condolences on the deaths of your husbands?'

Instantly recalling the scandalous events of his marriage, she apologized. 'Forgive me. I spoke out of turn.'

'As did I.' He'd regained his composure, the sudden coolness gone. 'I'm sure the deaths of your husbands were a great sorrow.'

'Yes, they were. Both were men of character.'

'My wife was handpicked by my parents.' He grimaced slightly. 'Another reason we don't get along.'

'Surely you weren't forced.'

'Let's just say I gave in to the ten-thousandth lecture on family duty.' His expression went utterly blank for a moment, and then he slowly exhaled, and glancing out the window, noted, 'We're almost there.'

Chapter Seven

He was tellingly quiet as the carriage came to rest, and when he helped her alight, she could feel his constraint. After speaking briefly to his driver, he returned to her side.

'He'll wait if you don't object to my carriage at your curb.'

'No, not at all,' she replied, wondering if he'd changed his mind, if her gauche remark concerning his wife had terminated his interest. 'The neighbors keep their distance.'

He glanced to the left and right, taking in the sizable property surrounding her studio. 'Have you been here long?'

'Two years. Would you like to see the studio?' And she waited with a degree of apprehension for his answer.

'Very much, and I apologize for my surliness. I must be tired.'

She smiled. 'And now I'll be surly about the cause of your tiredness-without reason, of course.'

He laughed. 'I'm constantly amazed by my reaction to you.'

'While I want you and don't want you in equal measure.'

'Our principles will be tested, then. I dislike intense emotion of any kind.'

'In amour, you mean.'

While he hesitated over how to answer so pointed a question, she took his hand and drew him toward the ornate gate.

'You needn't reply, Ranelagh.' His silence had been answer enough, but she wasn't a moonstruck young maid with unrealistic expectations.

'I find myself apologizing again.' He'd found it uncomfortable to lie when normally dissimilation in these matters was second nature.

'No need. I prefer honesty to glib phrases. And who knows, we may find we don't suit at all.'

Reaching out, he unlatched the gate and pushed it open. 'Not likely.' He leaned forward to kiss her gently.

She'd not expected such tenderness, nor had she expected the rush of heat that delicate kiss could generate. It was no more than a butterfly kiss, courteous and restrained, one a brother might bestow on a sister, or a cousin on a cousin, but the aftermath shimmered through her body with a flooding warmth, and she wondered how she would respond to his love-making when so simple a gesture shook her.

'How do you do it, Ranelagh?'

'I was about to ask the same of you.' Kisses were generally too tame to bring him to instant rut.

She glanced down at his blatant erection stretching his trousers. 'We seem to be in accord.'

'Not completely…' His smile was impudent.

'We should go inside.'

'It might be wise.' His hand tightened on hers.

She smiled. 'You wouldn't be so brash.'

His brows rose. 'Normally, no, but then, you tantalize me in the most exceptional way. And you did say the neighbors keep away.'

'If I'm dealing with such impetuosity,' she said, smiling, drawing her hand from his, 'I'll hurry us inside.' And putting actions to words, she quickly moved down the flagstone walk to the door.

The building was new, as were most structures in the exclusive Holland Park area. [4] Imaginative new architects were building significant examples of domestic architecture around the original Jacobean mansion at the center of the property. Philip Webb, George Aitchison, William Burges, Richard Norman Shaw, and J. J. Stevenson were all doing their part to contribute to the stature and prominence of the colony of eminent artists and middle-class industrialists, merchants, and bankers who were profiting by the rapidly expanding economy.

Alex's studio was of red brick, and like so many of the new structures had wide and comfortable windows, high-pitched roofs of tile, a gabled facade, and ivy-covered walls that gave it the homey, lived-in look of a country parsonage. And as if a further decorative touch were in order, someone had left a large bouquet of larkspur on the front step.

Harry had been by, Alex realized. He picked bouquets for her from the public parks despite her remonstrances.

'You have an admirer.'

'Like you, Ranelagh, more than one,' she said, picking up the bouquet.

'Aren't you going to look at the card?'

Cradling the flowers in her arm, she opened the cobalt-blue door. 'I doubt it's anyone you know.' And Harry's love notes were always lengthy. 'Please, come in.' Stepping over the threshold, she suddenly stopped. Harry was coming toward her down the hallway.

'Do you like my flowers?' he called out.

'Your admirer has made himself at home, it seems.'

Taking note of Ranelagh, Harry's tone turned petulant. 'I thought you were going to the races.'

'He keeps close watch on you,' the viscount drawled.