Gorgeous As Sin

Chapter 22

WHILE FITZ WAS entertaining himself or Clarissa or both or maybe at the core, neither, Rosalind was shocked by a visit from a doctor.

She wasn’t certain whether the woman had waited until the store was deserted or she’d only just walked in. Rosalind had been too busy stocking shelves to notice. But when Dr. Swindell approached her, introduced herself, and explained the reason for her visit, Rosalind turned bright red. “You must be mistaken,” she croaked, setting down the books she held. “Are you sure you have the correct address? ”

“Forgive me,” the slender, middle-aged woman gently replied, familiar with women who were too embarrassed to admit they needed her help. “I didn’t realize I wasn’t expected. I was asked to call on you.”

“By whom? ”

“A Mr. Hutchinson. He’s a barrister who lives in my neighborhood.”

Rosalind bristled at the name, momentarily recalling her first meeting with Groveland’s hireling. “Why would he think I need a doctor? ”

“Mr. Hutchinson didn’t say. Although his note gave the impression that a client of his had asked me to call on you. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.” Since many women found it difficult to talk about female complaints, Dr. Swindell added, “Might you require medical help of some kind? I specialize in female disorders and naturally, I’m most discreet.”

Finally recognizing the common denominator at the mention of female disorders, Rosalind was about to point-blank dismiss the doctor Fitz had hired when she more sensibly realized that she might benefit from the visit. There was no question she’d been in discomfort that first morning after sex with Fitz; she was also ignorant of the long-term consequences of excessive sexual activity. Perhaps it would be wise to take advantage of the doctor’s expertise. Rosalind glanced around the store, in the event a customer had walked in.

“I waited until everyone left,” the doctor noted, conscious of Rosalind’s anxious survey of the shop. “And might I add, I have no interest in moral issues when it comes to health care.” She’d been told that Mrs. St. Vincent was a widow; she’d also assumed from Hutchinson’s letter that some man was paying the charges. “We live in a new modern era after all. The culture is changing rapidly, social conventions are in flux.” She smiled. “Even female doctors are no longer looked upon as curiosities or misfits.”

No matter how delicately put, Rosalind understood the message. There were those who would construe her behavior with Groveland as improper. “Thank you for your understanding. However,” Rosalind went on with a faint grimace, “you can understand my reluctance to disclose, er, details of a personal nature.”

“If it’s any consolation, your sense of modesty is common. I see it every day in my practice. But please be frank. I’m sure I can help remedy whatever is troubling you.”

Rosalind hesitated. “The fact is,” she began, then blew out a small breath, embarrassed to be talking to a stranger about such private matters.

“Please, go on,” Dr. Swindell prompted, cool and unruffled.

“Well…you see, lately”-another small sustaining breath-“after having been long celibate, I’ve engaged in rather a good deal of intercourse. As a result, I experienced a decided tenderness-much improved now,” she quickly added.

“Yours is a very ordinary complaint, my dear. Women who haven’t previously engaged in sexual relations or those who have become active again after a long hiatus often feel as you do. If I could examine you, however, I could better determine whether some remedy is required.”

Rosalind blushed furiously. “I couldn’t possibly. Not now. The store is open until six, I’m here alone, and actually I feel quite well again.”

The doctor checked a small jeweled timepiece pinned to the lapel of her grey tailored suit. “Since you won’t be available for several hours, why don’t I leave you some salve. It will alleviate any tenderness. Then, at your convenience, you could come round to my office. I don’t anticipate anything of a serious nature, but an examination would allow a proper diagnosis. My office is in my home, so you could make an appointment for any evening.” Opening her leather valise, she rummaged through its contents and came up with a small jar. “Apply this to your tender areas as needed. Also, a good hot soak in the tub does wonders,” she added with a smile, handing the jar to Rosalind. “Do you have any other complaints? ”

Only that a libertine duke has embarrassed me by sending over a complete stranger. At the word libertine, Rosalind was suddenly seized by panic. A libertine was by definition promiscuous. Might she have contracted some dreadful disease from Fitz? “Maybe I should make an appointment now,” she said.

In her years of practicing medicine, Dr. Swindell had become adept at reading people. She recognized fear when she saw it. “How does tomorrow at seven sound? ”

“Tomorrow at seven would be most welcome.” The prospect of having to worry about some dire affliction for a protracted period of time would have been torture.

“Let me give you directions.” The doctor wrote down her address on a page from a small notepad. “There now.” She tore off the sheet and handed it to Rosalind with another warm smile. “Until tomorrow, my dear.”

At the doctor’s departure, Rosalind was left with an unsettling sense of unease.

Walking back to the counter to dispose of the jar and note, she glanced at the clock. Bloody hell, she had hours yet before she could lock up the store. Much too much time to worry about possible unsavory repercussions from Fitz’s prodigal past, she thought, nervously fussing with the papers on the counter before her. Too much time to concern herself with potentially alarming diseases. Why hadn’t she thought of the risks before she succumbed to his charm? How could she have been so incautious?

Even as she asked herself the questions, she knew why. She’d been tempted like all the women before her-by his dark good looks and flagrant masculinity, by his seductive smile and practiced charm, by the sensational pleasure he dispensed with such facility.

Despite short interruptions by customers that afternoon, the tumult in her brain continued apace-the question of should she or shouldn’t she have succumbed, the more fearsome issue of possible medical problems, the continuous steamy memories of Fitz doing what he did best.

She kept her eye on the clock as she wrote up new orders a short time later, willing the hands to move more quickly as a bored child might. Although longing for the six-o’clock hour had nothing to do with boredom and everything to do with escaping the public eye. She needed time alone to deal with her turbulent, conflicted emotions. She needed the quiet of her apartment to put everything into perspective, to remind herself that she’d had a life before Fitz. A busy, contented life.

Hearing the shop door open, she looked up and was shocked out of her musing. There he was, as if conjured him up from her imagination.

“What are you doing here? ” she tartly asked, his casual appearance annoying. Particularly when her own feelings were in anarchy.

Fitz quickly checked to see if she was picking up anything heavy to heave at him and was pleased to see nothing but the weightiness of her scowl. “I told myself to stay away, but as you see, I couldn’t,” he said, opening his arms in a brief gesture of demur. “I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner tonight? Anywhere you like.” He was offering her carte blanche, knowing full well they would likely meet friends of his. But no more than he’d scrutinized why he’d come here after Clarissa’s, he ignored the issue of his friends. It was about casual sex, he told himself, and nothing more. Why shouldn’t he treat her like any other lover?

Instead of politely accepting his invitation, Rosalind gave him a hard, gimlet-eyed look. “How could you have a doctor call on me? I might very well have been embarrassed in front of my customers!”

“I doubt it. Hutchinson would have warned her about the need for discretion. Did you like her? ”

“Do you actually care?” she shot back, irritated by his cool composure, by his exquisite pale linen suit that cost a fortune, by the fact that he felt no compunction about blatantly interfering in her life. “Admit, the only reason you had her sent over was to make sure nothing curtailed your libertine pleasures. And speaking of libertine”-she jabbed her finger at him-“if you gave me some ghastly disease, so help me God, I’ll do you in somehow!”

“Relax,” he said smoothly, undeterred by her threats. “I don’t have any diseases. Believe me, I’m probably more phobic than you about contracting something that might kill me.” His smile flashed, quicksilver and waggish. “Consider, I have much more to lose than you.”

She should have taken issue with his comparison, but she was so relieved, she unintentionally smiled. Not willing to so easily absolve him from his past sins, she hastened to scowl again. “Everything isn’t about money, Groveland.”

“After our rather intimate relationship, feel free to call me Fitz.” He chose not to argue about the seasoned orthodoxy concerning the virtues of wealth. “And if you don’t mind, I won’t address you as Mrs. St. Vincent unless we’re out in public.”

“You needn’t worry. I shan’t be going out in public with you again,” she acerbically returned. “Last night at the Turner exhibit was more than enough embarrassment for me.”

He bowed with practiced grace. “Please, accept my apologies.” Not that he hadn’t apologized to her lavishly and unstintingly at Mertenside last night.

“It’s a little late for apologies.” She wasn’t in a reasonable mood. He was much too blasй, too familiar as well with making amends to women and being forgiven. At base, too inexcusably privileged to understand ordinary mortals. His emerald watch fob alone would feed a family for years.

“Come to dinner with me. You set the rules.”

Certainly that was capitulation-or suave charm, more like. Nevertheless, perhaps for purely practical reasons, she should consider taking Mrs. Beecham’s suggestion and put herself out to please the Duke of Groveland. On the other hand, Mrs. Beecham might be shocked to learn how very far she’d already put herself out for him.

Although, that’s not what Mrs. Beecham had meant.

And that’s not what this was about.

Even with pleasure and practicality in the balance, in the cold light of day reaching a decision wasn’t difficult. “Thank you for the invitation, but no.” She couldn’t afford to be seen with a man of his lascivious reputation. She couldn’t afford the scandal. A widow with a small business wasn’t allowed a single misstep. The Turner exhibit notwithstanding, of course.

“Then I’ll have my chef come over and cook for us.” Fitz suddenly recalled her austere kitchen. “Or why don’t I have dinner brought over instead? ”

“Why don’t I end this conversation,” Rosalind said, determined not to be seduced by a man who regarded sex as a form of amusement and herself as a temporary diversion. Someone who would likely forget her name in a fortnight. “I’m too sore in any event-even more so than last night,” she lied, intent on discouraging him. She gave him a lowering look. “As a matter of fact”-she picked up the small jar from the counter-“your doctor left me some salve for my affliction. So don’t bother yourself tonight. I’m hors de combat.”

He smiled faintly. “I was just suggesting dinner.”

“As I recall, you said something about champagne last night and didn’t mean it for a second.”

“I certainly did.” His tone was bland; censorious women he’d dealt with before. “Can I help it if you changed your mind? ”

“I’d appreciate it if you did help even if I change my mind,” she perversely said.

He grinned at recall of her insatiable appetite for sex. “So I’m supposed to be the sensible one.”

“I suppose that’s asking too much of a rake,” she retorted. “Of course it is,” she said, answering her own question. “So I shall be the sensible one tonight. Kindly close the door when you leave.”

“Five hundred pounds says I won’t make the first advance.”

“I’m not betting with you. For one thing, I don’t have five hundred.”

“I’m just saying I can abstain if you can.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Then take the bet. You’ll be richer for it.”

“I’m not betting with you. You’re totally unscrupulous.”

He was more than willing to take the blame for their mutual passions if it would serve his cause. “You’re right, forgive me. I’ll turn over a new leaf, I promise. I’ll be virtue itself.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you doing this? ”

He would have liked to think it was for sex, but it didn’t look as though sex was on the menu and yet he was still interested. “God knows,” he honestly replied. Then he smiled. “Perhaps it’s the challenge.”

“Here’s a challenge for you.” Her voice was cool. Everything was a game with Fitz. Curiously, she’d been hoping for an answer based on earnest feelings. Which only proved that she wasn’t cut out for the fast life. “Go without something you want for a change.”

“Something being you.”

“Yes, me in all my fascinating guises,” she lightly asserted, taking pleasure in Fitz’s mutinous expression. “Consider me the one who got away.”

“What if you didn’t get away?” A gentle query despite his moody gaze.

“But I already have. I’ll be quite alone tonight, although I’m sure you won’t lack for female companionship.”

A predatory gleam came into his eyes. “What if I already found the female I want? ”

“If that was directed at me, I doubt your suit would be persuasive,” Rosalind said, overconfident and naive about men who considered themselves exempt from ordinary rules of conduct.

“Surely you could use five hundred pounds.” A man’s argument, blunt and to the point.

“Of course I could, but unlike the other ladies you dally with, I’m not for sale,” she smugly noted.

He was motionless save for a slight arch to his brows. “Everyone’s for sale.”

“Really? You think so? ”

“I know so. The price just varies.”

“You’re a cold bastard.” But gorgeous in so many ways, her less righteous persona unhelpfully pointed out.

“And you’re one hot little piece,” he drawled.

Her smile was dazzling, cheeky, flaunting in its presumption. “But unfortunately not available to a rogue like you.”

“You didn’t seem to mind a rogue’s touch last night or the night before,” he smoothly noted.

“Perhaps I’ve had my fill, no pun intended,” she archly replied. “You’ll find someone else to warm your bed, I’m sure.”

She shouldn’t have continued to provoke him.

Those who knew him better wouldn’t have been so rash.

In a few quick strides, he circled the end of the counter, pushed her against the wall, pinioned her with his body, and bending his head so their eyes were level, said taut and low, “Don’t fuck with me.”

“Unhand me this instant,” she hissed. “Someone might come in.”

“I’ll lock the door.”

As he turned, Rosalind looked past him and froze. “Oh, God help me, Lady Harcourt’s about to come in!”

Fitz glanced at the door and swore.

“Do you know her?” Rosalind breathed, her panicked gaze on the entrance.

“Of course.”

“Hide, hide, please-get out of sight… her hand’s on the door latch!” She could visualize her entire world disappearing beneath a wave of scandal if Lady Harcourt saw them together. She read sermons for amusement and railed against the promiscuity of society.

Responding to her terror, Fitz dropped to the floor. “Get rid of her,” he hissed, sitting against the high counter facing her, his legs on either side of her feet, his head conveniently at the juncture of her thighs.

“And if I don’t? ” She took orders poorly.

“Then maybe I’ll come up from under your skirts and wish dear old Adelaide a pleasant afternoon,” he threatened, flicking the hem of her skirt in warning.

She shot him a wrathful look. “Monster.”

His smile was impudent. “Sorceress.”

“Good afternoon, Lady Harcourt,” Rosalind sang out in a voice slightly breathless at the last for Fitz had lifted her skirt, slid his hand between her thighs, and easing it between the divided legs of her drawers, rested his fingertips ever so lightly on her cleft.

“Good afternoon, my dear.” The elderly woman closed her parasol and set it by the door. “I do hope you have some new sermons from Cardinal Newman.”

“Indeed, Lady Harcourt. They’re on their usual shelf.” Unable to move with her ankle securely in Fitz’s grasp, Rosalind prayed Lady Harcourt didn’t ask for help.

“Lock the door when she leaves,” Fitz whispered.

“I will not.”

“Consider, darling, you might prefer not fucking with spectators looking on.” He was gently caressing her pouty sex, delicately inspecting the extent of the tenderness she’d alluded to, deftly arousing her passions.

“Fitz, don’t,” she breathed. “Please… don’t.” But she swallowed a gasp for he’d slid the tip of his finger inside her the merest fraction and made contact with the bud of her clitoris. Every carnal nerve in her body violently swooned in response and instantly quivered for more.

“There now, you’re getting nice and wet,” he murmured, his voice softly approving, as if she’d accomplished something praiseworthy. Her clitoris was swelling, his fingers were being drenched, her vagina was pulsing, and her protests notwithstanding, she was definitely receptive.

“Stop, Fitz”-Rosalind slapped his head-“not now. She might see.”

If the lovely Mrs. St. Vincent hadn’t been squirming and rocking against the deft pressure of his fingers, he might have taken her protests to heart. Glancing up, he whispered, “Hush, darling. You don’t want Adelaide to hear you. By the way, you have the most welcoming little quim. I’m getting hard just thinking about trying to get inside.”

“Oh God,” she softly wailed, attempting to suppress the ripples of pleasure spreading outward from Fitz’s silken touch, mortified that she was melting inside when any self-respecting lady regardless of-oh Lord, what was he doing? “Don’t, Fitz, for God’s sake, don’t!”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to, darling,” he whispered, having eased her labia open with his thumb and tucked her skirt hem into her waistband with his other hand. “It’s up to you, of course.” And leaning forward slightly, he slowly measured the length of her distended clitoris with the tip of his tongue.

Gasping in shocked surprise, she jammed her palms against his head. But the pressure of her hands quickly relaxed as his tongue skimmed the twitching nerves of her clitoris and his long, slender fingers sunk palm deep inside her and stroked her throbbing vagina.

A moment later, sliding her fingers through his dark, ruffled hair, she gave herself up to a wholly new gluttonous pleasure, moving against his mouth, needing to ease the uneasable ache.

He felt her move, felt her clitoris swell, renewed his attention to her clit with single-minded professionalism, bringing her quivering little nub to full-blown, ready-as-could-be tumescence. She was slippery wet, her stimulated flesh moistening his fingers, the sleek fluid trickling down her thighs, and he hoped like hell Adelaide found her damned book of sermons quickly because Mrs. St. Vincent was getting really worked up and she wasn’t the patient type. Not that he was either, ergo his impetuous journey here after Clarissa’s. It appeared that Mrs. St. Vincent’s pussy, for inexplicable reasons, was the current magnet for his cock.

There was no reasonable explanation for his obsession, but then again, none was required.

Consummation alone was his holy grail.

“Mrs. St. Vincent! I don’t see the cardinal’s books!”

“Just to your… right… Lady Harcourt!” Rosalind called out, her voice faltering with her passions near fever pitch, with Fitz’s talented fingers inciting a frantic, shameful desire, with her senses beginning their impassioned, headstrong march to delirium. “Stop… oh God… please,” she whimpered.

“Come first.” Maybe this was about control; maybe he needed her to be as necessitous as he. Payment as it were, for his irrational pilgrimage to her store. “Come and I’ll stop.” He smiled as she shivered and the throbbing tissue surrounding his fingers pulsed and fluttered, as she softly groaned at the soul-stirring rapture. “There… that’s a good girl. That was a nice little spasm. If you come fast enough, darling,” he huskily murmured, “by the time Adelaide finds her book, you’ll be able to breathe again.”

As if he had but to whisper the prurient, shameless words of encouragement, she suddenly shuddered, gasped, and grabbed the counter as a white-hot flood of rapture rushed through her cunt, jolted her brain, brought her moments later-ravished and flushed-to a white-knuckled standstill. Skittish in her compromised position, she drew in a deep breath, forced herself to a semblance of calm, and smashed Fitz’s head with her fist. “Damn your rashness,” she hissed.

He looked up, his gaze amused. “You always come so fast I didn’t think it was a problem. And admit, you feel much better now.”

“Smug bastard,” she grumbled.

“Just be a dear and get rid of Adelaide.”

“And if I don’t?” She felt as though she should resist him, as if her virtue were at stake.

“Then I’ll get rid of her,” he quietly said.

“Don’t you dare!”

“You have no idea what I dare,” he drawled.

“The dear man has written two new tracts,” Lady Harcourt cheerfully exclaimed, holding two books aloft as she walked toward the counter. “Isn’t he the most exciting religious mind of our time! Such insights, such profundity. It quite enlivens my life.”

“Each to their own,” Fitz drolly muttered.

Shooting him a heated warning glance, Rosalind shook down her skirts and said, “Indeed, Lady Harcourt, Cardinal Newman’s works are very popular.”

“My dear, the heat must be bothering you. You’re quite flushed. Perhaps a cool glass of water would do you well.”

“I believe I’ll take your advice, my lady. The temperature is most vexing.”

“You wouldn’t want to suffer from heatstroke, my dear. My late, dear husband was brought low by just such an occurrence. He was never quite the same after.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Rest assured, I shall drink a glass of water.”

Rosalind quickly wrapped the two small books and handed them over.

“If you’d send a note to the house should more tracts arrive, I’d be most grateful,” Lady Harcourt said.

“Indeed, I shall. Enjoy your reading, Lady Harcourt.”

WHILE ADELAIDE WILL be grateful to hear of Newman’s new work, I’m grateful she finally left,” Fitz said, coming to his feet as the door closed on the noblewoman. “This time I’ll make sure the door is locked.”

Sated and replete, Rosalind was once again capable of clear thinking. “You should go instead.” Cooler postcoital reason prevailed, as did varying degrees of self-reproach for her shameless behavior.

Fitz rather thought it was his turn. As for the lady, she climaxed so easily he understood why Edward St. Vincent had written erotica. And that might be another less rational reason why he wasn’t about to leave. “I’ll be right back,” he declared, moving from behind the counter and making for the door.

Directing her testiness at Fitz rather than admit that she’d not only succumbed to his seduction but also had done so with barely a struggle, Rosalind irritably remarked, “Really, Groveland, I wonder how you ever get any women into bed with your despotic manner.”

He turned his head at the preposterous comment. She had just climaxed thanks to him, had she not? And pursuing women were a constant in his life. “Maybe you could give me lessons,” he drawled. “You seem to have gotten the hang of it.” Locking the door, he flipped over the Open sign to Closed.

“Go to hell,” she said, his recognition of her eager response exasperating and embarrassing. “Get out of my store.”

“Darling, bitch at me later,” he pleasantly replied as he returned to the counter. “In all fairness, it’s my turn.”

“It certainly is no such thing!” Having fallen prey to his deft persuasion only served to harden her resolve. Then again, postorgasmic, purified motives were more easily managed. “For your information,” she haughtily announced, “I am a nonconsenting adult.”

Her ridiculous protest amazed him, but then he’d not led a conventional life. Perhaps people who conformed to society’s rules fought their natural impulses. He inwardly smiled. Until they didn’t of course-to whit, her recent climax.

Moving behind the counter where Rosalind stood defiant and watchful, he picked up the jar of salve from the counter and shoved it in his pocket. “If you’re still nonconsenting ten minutes from now, I’ve lost my touch.” And having just brought her to orgasm, he was pretty sure he hadn’t.

“You could at least ask nicely,” she muttered, struggling with the abiding temptation of wanting him when she shouldn’t.

He glanced at her flushed cheeks and grinned. “Would you like to fuck, Mrs. St. Vincent, or rather, how much would you like to fuck? There’s no question you like it.”

She tried to kick him, but he moved too fast.

His lips twitched into a mocking smile. “Save your energy for the main bout, sweetheart. I’m in the mood for a brawl.” He had his own reasons for not wanting to be here. His own struggle with compulsion. Holding out his hand, he said, thin-skinned and edgy, “Let’s see who wins this match.”

She took a step back.

“My darling little bitch,” he whispered. In a flash, he lunged and swept her up in his arms. “Now mind your manners.” His voice was gruff; it was an order.

No, no, no, she silently cried. She would not respond to his brute behavior. She would not allow her body to turn ravenous at his growled command as if she didn’t have an ounce of restraint! She would remember who he was-a disreputable rake-and who she was and how she had everything to lose and nothing to gain by continuing this purely physical relationship!

But no matter that she tried to ignore his hard-muscled body pressed against hers as he took the stairs at a run, or the scent of his cologne in her nostrils, and his stark classic beauty close enough to kiss, her traitorous libido was undeterred. Or more aptly, adamant and frantic, as if her senses recognized the feel, scent, and sight of their perfect mate. With electrifying speed, a hard, steady pulsing began to throb deep inside her, her nipples went taut, her skin flushed in a Darwinian signal of readiness, and her overwilling sex turned ripely moist.

On this particular occasion, she would have preferred being in ignorance of the new landmark studies in the developing field of sexology: Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis and Havelock Ellis’s Man and Woman and Studies in the Psychology of Sex. She would have preferred not knowing all the pertinent signals of female receptivity. She might have better girded her loins as it were and repulsed Fitz’s advances.

Not that she could seriously forestall him with his physical superiority. And such reflections on his formidable strength and power served only to further excite her already highly charged libido. Her wanton senses shifted their attention to the central instrument of pleasure-his glorious penis at full stretch, perfectly formed, trained to the inch, capable of giving the most exquisite sexual satisfaction. Really, it was impossible to fight her vaulting urges. And considering the delectable reward, perhaps, in the end, absurd. “You win,” she said grudgingly, but honest at least. “I wish I could resist you, but I can’t.”

“Nor can I you,” he muttered, reaching the top of the stairs.

“Does this happen often?” she asked, clearly bewildered by her feelings that seemed impervious to scruple or prudence or even a scintilla of reason.

“Never.”

“Are you sure?” She was struggling with irrepressible desire when she’d always prided herself on logic.

“Bloody right, I’m sure.” He strode into her parlor.

“Because you’re stud to all of London,” she snapped back, inexplicably jealous of every woman he’d ever know.

“Damn right.”

“Don’t have me make you do something you don’t want to do,” she pettishly asserted.

“Believe me, darling”-the word more curse than endearment-“you’re not making me do anything. Or at least not rationally. I’m pretty much out of control.”

“Don’t blame me.”

“I don’t know who else to blame,” he growled. Then quicksilver, he made a course correction. “Forgive me. You’re quite blameless in all but your prodigious allure. I’m like a moth to the flame,” he added with a smile. “So just bear with me.” He shoved open her bedroom door with his foot.

She sighed. “We’re both operating outside the pale.”

“But it’s an enchanting land nonetheless.”

“Enchanting beyond belief.”

He gazed at her for a moment as he stood at the side of her bed, both avarice and wonder in his eyes. “Enchanting in a thousand ways,” he softly agreed. Setting her down a moment later, he dropped into a sprawl beside her, his head resting on his hand. “I must take care not to hurt you. Or hurt you anymore.” Leaning over, he gently kissed her cheek. “For which I’m vastly sorry.” As if recalling something, he pulled the jar from his suit coat pocket. “Although, there’s this if you wish.”

“I don’t need it. I feel extremely well.” She suddenly frowned. “Although, you’ve no doubt dealt with this problem before.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, debating how best to answer. The women he played with weren’t novices. “Actually, no,” he said. “You’re the first”-he smiled-“in a variety of ways. All of them good by the way. I expect your fair skin might be the problem,” he politely added. “As for me, I’m dark as the ace of spades; my skin is impervious to wear and tear.”

“Him, too.” Reaching over, she touched the bulge evident beneath the linen of his trousers.

He grinned. “The Black Corsair if you like.” He ran a fingertip over the skirt fabric covering her mons. “And you have the sweetest little pussy. We’ll have to see if they can play together later.”

“How much later? ”

He laughed. “Greedy puss.”

“I wish I could say no.”

There-the proper Mrs. St. Vincent again. But rather than speak his mind, he politely said, “I’m glad you can’t.”

“Are you?” She shouldn’t have asked; it was gauche to ask a man about his feelings. Particularly a man like Fitz who was known far and wide for his disdain of the tender emotions.

“Yes, very much,” he softly said. “Because I can’t say no either.” He looked away for a second before meeting her gaze again. “I lectured myself against coming to see you, and yet here I am”-he grinned-“and bloody glad to be here.” His voice dropped low. “I was serious about dinner, too. Come dine with me afterward. My wealth and title insulate me from censure and by extension, you as well. You needn’t worry.”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

“About dinner or the dispensations allowed a duke? ”

She grimaced. “About everything.”

“At the risk of offending your virtuous sensibilities-” He paused abruptly as she gave him a skeptical look. “I’m speaking in general terms; you must admit you’re of a conventional bent, other than your flame-hot passions,” he added with a smile. “But back to my point. Life is to be lived, darling. Maybe not as prodigally as I do, but nevertheless lived. How sad it would be to grow old without ever knowing-”

“This bewitchment? ”

He nodded, neither willing nor able to define his feelings. He’d avoided sincere emotion too long. Or perhaps having been raised as he was, he had never learned to recognize it. “Are we done talking? ” he asked, malelike in his avoidance.

She smiled. “If you like.”

He grinned. “You know what I’d like.”

“The same thing as I. We are obsessed, or at least I am.”

“We both are. I was thinking of taking you home with me and keeping you locked away.”

“And I’d go if life allowed. But unfortunately, I have a store to run and a living to make.”

“I could take care of that for you.”

For a brief moment, silence fell.

Fitz cringed. He shouldn’t have even thought it, let alone said it.

Rosalind knew better than to take seriously what was expressed in the heat of passion, although the notion was enchanting. “Thank you, but I prefer my life as it is”-she smiled-“especially when you come calling.”

“Speaking of calling-only if you’re sure you’re well enough-why don’t we put some of this salve on my cock and he’ll come call on your pussy? ”

“It sounds like a lovely experiment. Smell it, too. It’s lavender scented.”

He grinned. “Then I’ll be bringing flowers when I call.”

“At the risk of adding to your conceit, you needn’t bring anything but yourself and I’m content.”

He held out the small jar. “Should I do it or you? ”

“Me, me,” she playfully said, fluttering her fingers.

“God Almighty,” Fitz whispered, “you’re the most endearing little bookstore owner I know.”

“And you’re God’s gift to women,” she replied with a smile. “But handsome men and carnal pleasures aside, Fitz, darling, just for the record, I have no intention of selling my store. I want to be perfectly plain about that. Sex is just sex.”

“Then, just for the record, I, too, intend to keep pressing my suit.” He flickered his brows and grinned. “I’m hoping you’ll finally see the light.” And sex is just sex was his gospel.

“I don’t want to talk,” she whispered, the subject too contentious. It was better to concentrate on sex and nothing more.

“I never do when I’m with you.” He smiled and brushed a fingertip over the soft curves of her mouth, as practical as she about what brought them together. “Now kiss me and make me happy.”

It turned out to be a kiss that wasn’t about sex.

It was a happy-to-be-together kiss.

There was a certain innocence in their kiss as well, as if they both hadn’t had others in their life before. As if the world was fresh and new.

“You can’t keep smiling like that when I’m kissing you,” Fitz teased. “I’m losing my concentration.”

“You should talk,” she said, trying not to smile and failing. “I don’t know whether to kiss you back or ask you what the joke is.”

“No joke, darling. I just never knew sex could be so much fun.”

“You’re just pleased because you’re getting your way.”

He always did. But he also knew that having everything didn’t bring happiness. “You decide then.”

“About what? ”

“About anything? ”

“Don’t be so generous. I might take you up on your offer.”

“Please do.” Realizing that he was actually willing to give her anything, he quickly stepped back from the brink of such unreserved sentiment and said with a grin, “Would you like the shirt off my back? ”

“You read my mind,” she playfully replied, as intent as he on not straying into the realm of earnestness. “The sooner the better.”

Even without his current incentive, he could shed his clothes quickly, and in record time he was undressed and helping Rosalind do the same. He was seated on the side of the bed, she was standing between his legs nearly nude now save for her drawers and silk stockings.

“I adore when you wait on me,” she purred, her hand on his broad muscled shoulder, her gaze on his bent head as he slid her drawers down her legs. “It’s very provocative. It makes me hot, hot, hot.”

He glanced up, his grey eyes amused. “Everything makes you hot, sweetheart.” Then, grasping her waist, he lifted her off the floor, kicked her drawers aside, and set her down again.

“Everything about you makes me hot.”

“Better yet,” he murmured, rolling one garter and silk stocking down her leg. Looking up a second later, her stocking and garter discarded, he held her gaze for an overlong moment. “Since now you’re my current addiction.”

“Sexual addiction.”

He shook his head and began removing her other stocking. “My everything addiction-my eat, sleep, every-waking-minute addiction.” His useless detour to Clarissa’s a case in point.

She smiled. “How sweet.”

“Fuck, yes,” he said, but he was smiling too as he dropped the second stocking on the floor. “You fucking up my life is sweet as hell.”

“How nice of you to say,” Rosalind murmured, sultry and low, his wanting her as much as she wanted him delicious and wonderful. And not at the moment open to the threat of logic.

“Just so long as you like the things I do,” he softly replied, lifting her up and depositing her, seated, on the bed, “we’ll get along famously.”

“We already do,” she said, watching him lie down beside her, cross his arms under his head, and stretch out in all his powerful, virile glory.

“This should smooth the way even better.” He held out the jar of salve.

“I’m not sure I need this.”

“Why take a chance? I heard the doctor was very good.”

Rosalind was tempted to ask how he knew and who had told him and how much she was involved in that conversation, but this close to his splendid erection that was her continuing addiction, she thought better of it and instead, took the jar from him.

He in turn was tempted to ask whether this episode would be featured in chapter two of The Duke’s Doxy but decided against it for similar reasons.

The scent of lust pervaded the small sunlit bedroom.

Subverting smaller discontents.

Sitting cross-legged beside him, she uncapped the jar, scooped out a small dollop of lavender-scented salve, and said with a gratified smile, “I think he’s bigger than usual.” Fitz’s upthrust erection lay hard against his stomach, stiff and massive, the red crest brushing his navel.

“He’s been thinking of you.”

“What a sweetheart.” Bending low, she brushed the swollen tip with her lips, drew it into her mouth for a fleeting second before sitting up again. “He smells like soap.”

“I just had a bath.”

Her first thought was to ask why, but she doubted he’d tell her, and in any case she didn’t really wish to know why he was bathing in the middle of the afternoon. “How thoughtful of you,” she said instead and reached for his penis.

At the slight umbrage in her voice he automatically braced himself, not entirely sure of her mood. But he visibly relaxed as she gently grasped his cock.

She grinned. “Nervous? ”

“Not anymore.”

“I wouldn’t be so foolish when I need this.”

“Much obliged,” he drawled.

Both highly motivated, they avoided the subtext of their conversation in favor of imminent sexual satisfaction.

Drawing his rigid erection away from his stomach, she held it upright and placed the dollop of salve on the turgid head of his penis. “It looks like you just came,” she said, admiring her handiwork.

“Keep it up and I might,” he said, a muscle twitching over his high cheekbone. This little game was going to require considerable restraint when he’d been wanting to fuck Mrs. St. Vincent since he dropped her off this morning.

“You have to wait.” She drew a portion of the ointment down one side of his penis, her finger gently tracing the thick webbing of dilated veins on her descent.

“Then you have to hurry,” he said on a suffocated breath, calling on all his willpower to resist doing what he wanted to do. And it wasn’t playing this game.

“So I’m not always the one who wants to rush.”

“You just came.”

“And you didn’t? ”

That small fretful tone again. “Not since last night,” he lied.

“Then I’ll hurry and you wait just a little and,” she said, the pique gone from her voice, “we’ll see if we like this”-another swift brushing downstroke that gleamed down his erection-“or not.”

Very soon-not as soon as he’d have liked, but soon-his penis was glistening with ointment.

“It looks very tempting,” she said with a little wistful sigh. “I wish it was eatable.”

“Next time I’ll bring jam.”

“Bring lemon curd. I love it almost as much as I love him,” she murmured, sliding her fingertips around the shiny head of his cock.

It was his own fault, he decided, letting her come first. Usually she was famished for sex. Although he also knew with anyone else he could have waited for hours. Not a thought he cared to dwell on. “If you indulge me now, darling, you can name your price.” An unprecedented declaration from the Duke of Groveland who had always been able to take his pleasure with a notable insouciance.

“My goodness!”

Her look of feigned surprise was so operatic he burst out laughing, momentarily distracting his thoughts from orgasmic goals. “Don’t plan on making a living on the stage, darling.”

“And I suggest you refrain from making such outrageous offers. Someone might take advantage of you.”

“The offer’s still open. You have five seconds. Five, four, three, two-”

“Stay with me tonight.”

“Little fool, I would have anyway. Ask for something later.” Past waiting, like some randy adolescent, he pushed her onto her back, rolled on top of her, and put his glossy cock into her luscious cunt.

There was something to be said for a frictionless fuck, the ointment adding a new impressionable dimension to the concept of unreserved access. He had to deliberately curb his forward progress in order not to batter her and the head of his cock in the bargain. But once he found his rhythm, the lady quickly accommodated him, and with a familiarity of considerable practice now, they made their way to that blissful elysian of orgasmic delight and sensory bewitchment they’d discovered together.

She didn’t know it was as new to him as it was to her.

Nor did he understand she felt the same as he.

For a woman who wrote erotica, he expected a certain libidinous propensity.

While everyone knew, she thought, that Groveland reveled in prodigal sensation.

But rather than discuss nuances of feeling that bordered on fondness and affection, they chose to verify those sensations in more pleasant ways. With a kind of sumptuousness and self-indulgence, with happiness, with gratitude in the end.