Gorgeous As Sin

Chapter 10

IT WAS SHORTLY after nine, the air already heavy with heat, the muslin curtains hanging limp at the open windows of Rosalind’s bedroom. Fitz was almost finished dressing. He was debating wearing a coat when he was already sweating. But his shirt looked like it had been walked on… more than once. Which may have been the case. Not that his coat and trousers weren’t the worse for wear as well. Oh, what the hell; he slipped on his swallow-tail. It wasn’t as though this was the first time he’d come home in rumpled evening rig.

Nor was it likely the last.

As for the lovely Rosalind-all sweet tenderness this morning-he was definitely inclined to call on her again.

They’d previously exchanged all the courtesies, each thanking the other in turn, he with suave practiced grace, she more impetuous in her sentiments. But then she’d been pleasured beyond her wildest dreams. It was only natural.

He bent to pick up his watch that had been discarded on the floor the previous night. Sliding the leather band around his wrist, he clasped the gold buckle as Rosalind offered up another appreciative compliment on his kindness-a curious word, he thought. But as he smiled and answered her in kind, he found himself thinking this might be an opportune moment to bring up buying her store. She appeared to view him with considerable affection.

So he did. Ask.

Lounging in bed, Rosalind looked at him with mild surprise. “Was last night just a way of negotiating with me?”

“No, and yet I can’t say I wouldn’t like you to reconsider,” he pleasantly replied.

“Sorry, darling. But thank you nonetheless for a night of unbelievable pleasure.” She smiled. “Although I expect you hear that often.”

He didn’t like her blasй tone; he particularly didn’t like to think of her lying nude in bed like that speaking to some other man with such casualness. Not that it was any of his business, he quickly reminded himself. Reaching into the pocket of his evening coat, he pulled out the jewelry from Grey’s and set it on the bedside table.

“What are you doing?” A decided umbrage rang through her query.

“Leaving a few small gifts.” In the light of day, habitual custom held sway, the heated passions of the previous night appeased.

“Are you paying me for sex?” Frost in every syllable.

“God no. It’s nothing of the kind.”

“Then take them back!” Rolling over on her side, she reached out, grabbed the glittering pile, and gimlet-eyed and wrathful, held the jewels out to him. “Here, take them!”

“I don’t want them. They’re engraved with your name in any event, so they won’t do me much good.” He was moving toward the bedroom door as he spoke, feeling equally sulky and resentful. Why the hell was she indignant? Any other woman would have offered profuse, heartfelt thanks! But then she was the same obstinate woman who was standing in the way of Monckton Row!

Half turning as he reached the doorway, he cooly measured her with his gaze, as though calibrating her entertainment value. “Thank you for your hospitality and”-he paused in his drawling delivery just long enough to let the insult drop into the silence-“gratifying enthusiasm.” Then he turned and walked out, pulling the door shut behind him.

He heard the jewelry hit the door.

Bitch, he thought.

A damnably sexy bitch, he had to admit-one who’d kept his prick primed and ready for action all night long. Unfortunately, she was also a major thorn in his side. And that defiance trumped even world-class sex.

As soon as he’d paid his compliments to his mother, he’d call on Hutchinson. Perhaps his barrister’s agents had discovered some unfavorable information about the St. Vincents since yesterday. Hopefully, something he could use to destroy the irritating cunt who stood in the way of his development project.

Or if not precisely destroy-perhaps that was too malevolent a verb after Mrs. St. Vincent’s excessive receptivity last night-at least convince her to sell.

LYING IN BED, Rosalind silently fumed as she listened to the swift echo of Groveland’s footsteps descend the stairs. Only when the back door slammed and silence reigned did she finally give vent to her feelings. Swearing like a trooper, yelling at the top of her lungs, she conjured up every derogatory expletive she’d ever heard and pithily and comprehensively bestowed them on Groveland’s reprehensible person. And with an older brother to ape, she’d acquired a large and colorful repertoire.

When both her breath and invective had run its course, she lay panting. In that small lull, she found herself peevishly contemplating her blackened and besmirched reputation. And allocating blame where blame was due.

To the dissolute Groveland, naturally.

At present, logic and reason were truant with hell-hath-no-fury in charge.

How dare he view her as some whore or doxy who could be bought off with a few sparkling bits of jewelry! And prior to that, she hotly contended, how dare he invite himself upstairs! And prior to that, why did he present himself as some benevolent noble interested in buying all the art on display! Fraud and charlatan! He was nothing but a scurrilous rogue as everyone well knew, and she had mistakenly forgotten after several glasses of champagne! She softly groaned-not only galled at her blunder but also concerned that she might have hurt her vocal cords while tantrumishly screaming. Damn-it hurt when she swallowed. Reaching for the bottle of champagne left on the bedside table, she thought to remedy her sore throat with a soothing draught.

As she rolled over, the scattered jewelry laying at the base of the door suddenly hove into view. And there were considerably more than a few sparkling bits.

Not that it mattered one whit that Groveland could afford piles of jewelry, she rancorously thought, putting the bottle to her mouth and swallowing some overly warm wine. He was no doubt in the habit of dispensing lavish gratuities to all his lovers.

Oh hell. She flushed red-hot. Now she was one of that ignoble rank.

Damn his seductive allure, she lamented. Damn his dark beauty and his magnificent-she stopped in midthought, refusing both the image and coarse word that had leaped into her mind. And yet, she silently wailed, how could she have succumbed like some shameless hussy to his… his… virility.

How could she have so forgotten herself?

Not that remorse was likely to nullify either her shame or her fall from grace, she sensibly decided. And rather than dwell on regret-Edward’s gambling habit having caused her to be mindful of its uselessness-she devoted herself instead to the more profitable exercise of devising various vile and devious schemes of retaliation.

Revenge is sweet had been coined for just such occasions.

She considered accosting Groveland in numerous ways or mortifying him in some other yet to be determined fashion-cutting him down to size, as it were-preferably before an audience. Not necessarily achievable, she acknowledged, since she lived outside his fashionable world, and was not likely to receive any invitations from those in the beau monde. She also doubted that he’d respond with favor should she call on him at home. In fact, she’d probably be turned away if she appeared at his door. Nor could she challenge him to a duel, even if she could afford passage to Calais where duels took place now that they’d been outlawed in England. She wasn’t a good shot.

She swore, more softly this time, thinking, What a pity.

So, in any real sense, retribution was futile. Save for one instance alone, she reflected with a cool, slightly sinister smile.

And she’d see him rot in hell before she’d ever sell him her bookstore.

Marginally and perhaps ungenerously mollified by her power over the duke in that single area at least, she allowed herself a small moment of triumph.

As if penalized for her transgression, she was precipitously jerked from her victorious fantasy by the ring of church bells announcing the hour.

Glancing at the clock, she let out a yelp of surprise, leaped from her bed, and was stopped in her tracks by a stabbing pain. Hardly daring to breath should she accidently move in the process, she realized that engaging in sex for an entire night apparently left its mark. Good Lord, she was sore.

How fitting.

Groveland’s departure had left her disenchanted in more ways than one. Her next thought-thoroughly unwanted and also unseemly-took center stage in her brain: was Groveland as sore or did he have callouses after so many years at stud?

She literally shouted, “Stop!” because she didn’t wish to pursue such a debauched train of thought. In fact, she would not, under any circumstances, spend another minute thinking about the vile scoundrel. She would not!

Concentrating on her own affliction instead, she slowly made her way to her minuscule bathroom, taking very small steps to lessen the pain. Filling up the tub with steamy hot water, she lay back, soaked her tender parts, and half dozed. Only when the church bells rang the quarter hour, did she reluctantly set about readying herself for the day.

The decision to go without drawers was simple. Any chafing no matter how rudimentary would have been insupportable in her present condition. Slipping on a chemise, she chose a simple printed linen frock from her limited wardrobe and dressed without so much as looking in the mirror. Today would essentially be a matter of counting the hours until she could close the store and go to sleep. She was exhausted. And sore.

After tying her damp hair back with a bow at the nape of her neck, she ate three large pieces of bread and jam. That she was outrageously hungry did not bear close scrutiny when she had vowed to not think about Groveland.

By the time she left her apartment and slowly made her way down the stairs, it was past ten.

She would have given anything had it not been Mrs. Beecham waiting at her door. But she was being punished for her sins, she suspected.

“Tsk, tsk,” Mrs. Beecham chided as Rosalind unlocked the door. “Keeping a customer cooling their heels is not good business, my dear. My heavens!” Wide-eyed, Mrs. Beecham surveyed Rosalind from head to toe. “You look like you haven’t slept a wink. Are you ill?” She quickly took a step back. “I dearly hope not since my frail constitution leaves me quite defenseless against the smallest malady.”

“Rest easy, Mrs. Beecham. I am quite well, although I admit the heat last night interrupted my sleep,” Rosalind lied. And your corpulent form, Mrs. Beecham, looks anything but frail.

“Ah, yes, this sweltering August weather. My sleep suffers as well.” Mrs. Beecham smiled. “Which accounts for my early arrival, my dear. I am quite addicted to Mrs. Thornhill’s works, but I’ve read them all. Might you have something comparable for me to read?”