Gorgeous As Sin

Chapter 3

GROVELAND ARRIVED AT Bruton Street Books shortly before ten.

An early riser, he’d already spent some hours with his new secretary, Stanley. All his correspondence, which had been left in abeyance during his absence, was now in order, and young Stanley was much relieved. The duke’s casual disregard for his mail was unfathomable to the meticulous lad, but then Stanley was still young and idealistic-neither of which characterized the duke. The duke was thirty-five. And his youth had been marked by tumult and violence when his father was in his cups-not an atmosphere likely to foster idealism.

Fitz had explained-again-that Stanley could do what he liked with the billets-doux; they were of no interest to him. As for his business correspondence, if Stanley had questions and couldn’t reach him, he could speak to Hutchinson. The remaining mail could be dealt with in whatever manner Stanley chose. He’d tried to be diplomatic for the young man was doing his best to shoulder his new responsibilities. “The point is,” he’d finally said, “I don’t want to deal with most of this. You understand?”

Now in terms of further diplomacy…

Fitz surveyed the bookshop’s bow windows filled with colorful volumes, then the glass-paned, canary yellow door with the hours clearly noted thereon. He slipped his watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. Ten. He tried the door once again. Apparently, Mrs. St. Vincent wasn’t the punctual type.

Ah, there, a woman was coming toward him from the back of the store.

Mrs. St. Vincent it appeared from Hutchinson’s brief description-her hair color and height identifying factors. But as Fitz’s connoisseur gaze swiftly took her measure, he wondered if Hutchinson could have been wrong about her background. This woman had the look of an actress: startlingly beautiful, tall, and shapely, her heavy auburn hair piled casually atop her head а la Pre-Raphaelite portraits. Or maybe it was that particular shade of hair that called to mind their work.

Although she also affected the aesthetic mode in her attire: elements of Japanese motifs embroidered on her blouse, the fabric of her moss green linen skirt handwoven from all appearances, her splendid form visibly without corsets. Having spent enough time in artists’ studios buying artwork or in pursuit of some lovely model, he recognized the avant-garde style.

Women in his world preferred French couture, opulent silks and satins, velvets and lace rather than hand-loomed wools and linens, and corsets were as de rigueur as a hand-span waist. And no lady he knew would appear in public with her hair as casually arranged as Mrs. St. Vincent’s.

She wasn’t working class, but she had definitely moved beyond the conventional world of her birth. For instance, she wasn’t wearing mourning, although her husband could have been dead for some time; he’d have to ask Hutchinson. Certainly in style and dress she appeared very much the modern woman. Not that he paid much attention to the controversial battle for women’s rights. In the insulated world in which he moved, the subject was, if not anathema, generally ignored. The ladies of his acquaintance were more concerned with gossip, the most stylish gown, or their newest lover.

Speaking of lovers, Mrs. St. Vincent definitely piqued his interest.

She was quite lovely.

Rosalind, meanwhile, in the process of mulling over a possible speaker for her Saturday reading group, didn’t notice the duke until she reached the door and looked up to unlock it. Her eyes flared wide and her first thought was: My Lord, Groveland is tall! Her second thought, thoroughly uncalled for and quickly suppressed was: He is as handsome as sin-gloriously so… like a Leighton depiction of some Greek god or Roman gladiator-all overwhelming strength and chiseled beauty.

He was a favorite of the scandal sheet gossip mongers. And whether at the races, some hunt, or a fancy dress ball, a woman was always clinging to his arm.

Not that his looks or his scandalous life should concern her in the least, Rosalind sternly reminded herself; she was well aware of why he’d come.

Groveland was here because he wished to acquire her store-and with it, her livelihood and all that was positive in her life. Not that he wasn’t offering her generous compensation. But she didn’t wish to sell for any number of reasons. Of prime importance, perhaps, was the fact that she’d fashioned a busy, satisfying, and increasingly lucrative life for herself since Edward’s death.

And she saw no cause or reason to relinquish it.

Yes, yes, she understood it might be possible to reconstruct such an existence elsewhere. But why must she disrupt her life and business simply because Groveland was wealthy, titled, and insistent?

She liked that her free library was frequented by so many of the laboring poor; she took great pleasure in knowing that her Saturday reading group was filled to overflowing because she offered speakers and books addressing the pertinent issues of the day. And while her small art gallery in the back of her store had originated by chance, the women artists who exhibited there were drawing increasing critical acclaim.

Furthermore, soon she would be free of debt without the duke’s offer.

But perhaps what may have ultimately sealed her decision was her fundamental dislike of men like Groveland-idle, leisured aristocrats who lived only for their amusements. Noble lords who had never wanted for anything, who expected immediate compliance, who resented challenge or contradiction. Who lived off the income generated by ill-paid retainers.

Good Lord, I’ve become a bona fide radical!

Whether it was Groveland’s rapping on the window pane or the shock of her latent radicalism jarring her back to reality, she quickly slipped the latch free and opened the door.

“A pleasant good morning.” The duke bowed faintly. “Mrs. St. Vincent, I presume. I’m Groveland.”

“Good morning, Your Grace. Are you in the market for some reading material?” Rosalind sardonically inquired. That he looked every inch the exquisite noble from the top of his deliberately ruffled hair to his biscuit-colored summer shoes inexplicably annoyed her.

She is a bitch, he thought. But adept at humoring women, at the top of his game according to Brooks’s betting books, Fitz offered a practiced smile. “Actually, I came to speak with you about your bookstore,” he said, smooth as silk. “I was hoping you would allow me a few moments of your time.”

She found his suave charm and easy smile insufferable, his expectation that she would succumb to it even more irksome. After a deliberately long pause, she said, “I suppose I could give you a few minutes. Come in and say what you have to say.” She waved him in with a flick of her hand. “Not that it will do you any more good than the ten others who came here to do your bidding.”

He flexed his fingers against an urge to throttle her, her tone, her stance, the chill in her emerald eyes, like a gauntlet thrown.

Hutchinson was right. She was audacious.

His mind racing with options other than that of throttling her, he moved past her into the store. Was it possible his architect could redraw the plans and work around her damned corner property? Could Williams design a new entrance to Monckton Row and the luxury townhomes planned for the site. Could he tell this shrewish bitch to go to hell?

The sound of the door closing behind him brought him back to his senses. Marginally. He understood that responding to her insolence in kind would hardly serve his mission, that tact and diplomacy would more likely win the day. But Groveland rarely met a quarrelsome woman; in fact, he never did, the women in his life universally disposed to please him. So he reined in his temper with effort. “We can trade insults if you wish.” He smiled tightly. “I’m more than willing and better at it than you I expect. Or you can do me the courtesy of listening to my proposal. I promise to be brief.”

Rosalind blew out a small breath; he was asking for little. She could at least hear him out. “I apologize. I was unnecessarily rude. I didn’t sleep much last night.” She smiled faintly. “At least I have an excuse for my incivility.”

Fitz couldn’t help but smile in return, although he hadn’t intended to. No more than he’d intended to say in a lazy drawl, “For all you know, I may not have slept much last night either.”

“But then no one would expect a man of your proclivities to have spent your night sleeping, would they?”

The little vixen was a flirt. “What could you possibly know of my proclivities?” he murmured, back on familiar ground, seduction his particular metier.

“The whole world knows, Your Grace. You’re infamous.”

“Should I apologize?” His voice was low and velvet soft, his gaze explicitly carnal.

It was unconscionable that a tremor of desire should immediately spike through her senses. That his deep, husky voice and heated gaze should prompt her cheeks to flush rosy pink. That for the briefest moment she’d fall prey to his tantalizing allure.

But she was a woman of resolve, even more so since her widowhood, so she resisted the heady temptation. “No need to apologize, Groveland.” She offered him a bland look and a blander smile. “May I offer you tea?” Clearly, a moment of respite was in order. She understood now why he was the byword for amorous play. He was quite impossible to resist-a wholly inexplicable phenomena to date in her life, but shockingly real.

She really could use a cup of tea if for no other reason than to put some distance between herself and Groveland’s disconcerting sexuality.

“Yes, thank you,” he murmured with a polished bow. He could drink tea if he had to, although cognizant of Mrs. St. Vincent’s tantalizing response, he would have much preferred a taste of the lovely widow’s heated passions.

At his graceful bow, Rosalind immediately pictured him on a ballroom floor, bowing to some woman, poised and elegant in full evening rig. Good God, I’ve been writing fiction too long.

“I heated the samovar earlier,” she quickly remarked, finding the sudden silence disturbing, feeling the need to fill the hush. “I keep tea at the ready for my customers and myself. I’m addicted I’m afraid, and customers like it as well… especially when the weather turns cooler-not that it’s cool today, of course,” she added, chiding herself for sounding like some dithering young miss just out of the schoolroom. “Please, over there,” she restively finished, gesturing to two chairs near the window.

After a cup of tea, she’d politely refuse his offer and send him on his way. She was no innocent maid whose head could be turned by a handsome face and a captivating smile. Truly, seriously, she silently admonished herself.

The lady’s contemptuous hauteur had vanished, Fitz reflected, following her, along with her abrasiveness, and in their place was this lovely, sweet tremulousness. His next thought was bluntly male and hackneyed: What she needs is a good, hard orgasm to calm her nerves.

His third thought was perhaps even more of a cliche considering his reputation for licentious pleasures: Might she be available for a bit of dalliance this morning? He was fresh and rested after a good night’s sleep. Although he fully understood that his lustful desires had more to do with the lady’s fascinating sensuality than a bracing night of repose.

Taking a seat in a worn leather club chair while she busied herself pouring tea, he slid down into a comfortable slouch and observed her from under his lashes. He had only to pull out a few pins and her heavy, silken hair would tumble down her back. His fingers unconsciously flexed in pleasant anticipation. Her blouse buttoned down the front. Convenient. She wore a minimum of petticoats under her simple skirt, too. Really-it was as if fate was taking a hand, he thought, contemplating the ease with which he could disrobe her. He shifted slightly as his erection grew, the image of Mrs. St. Vincent nude vastly arousing.

He shot a glance toward the door, as if he might curtail impending customers by will alone.

“Sugar?”

It took him a second to reply, distracted as he was by his imagination racing full tilt. “Yes, please,” he said, crossing his legs to conceal his erection. “Four.”

Her brows rose in surprise, but she only said, “Milk?” rather than what she was thinking.

“Half milk, please, if it’s not too late.”

She glanced at him and smiled. “You don’t actually drink tea, do you?”

He smiled back. “I do on occasion.”

“When you’re trying to please some woman.”

He grinned. “Yes, mostly then.”

“I could find you some liquor, I suppose.” But even as she spoke, she realized how she’d compromised herself and quickly added, “Actually, I can’t.”

“Tea’s fine,” he murmured, as if he hadn’t noticed her brief moment of unintentional goodwill.

She tried not to be overly mindful of how he casually lounged in her chair as if he sat there often, nor how splendid he looked in his beige linen suit-powerful, virile male outfitted in gentlemen’s finery. And yet the brute animal remained beneath the veneer, London’s best tailors unable to trivialize the underlying brawn and muscle. In contrast-strangely perhaps, given his reputation for vice-he had the look of some troubadour of old as well with his dark, ruffled hair curling over his collar, his grey eyes revealing a hint of soulfulness, his sensual mouth eminently kissable.

She had to admit he was incredibly attractive.

She had forgotten what it felt like to be enticed.

But she knew better than to succumb to Groveland’s much-heralded seductive skills, and when she carried over two teacups and handed him his, she was careful not to meet his gaze.

Infamous he might be, but she was not, she noted in cautionary restraint, sitting down across from him and taking a sip of tea.

“When I first saw you, you reminded me of a Pre-Raphaelite portrait.” Fitz smiled over the rim of his teacup. “You hear that often, I expect.”

“I admit, I do. It’s my hair, I think.”

“And your eyes and nose. I own several of their paintings-Rossetti and Millais in particular. The similarities between you and their models are quite remarkable.”

“You own Rossetti and Millais?” She couldn’t quite keep the shock from her voice. She’d not expected him to be a patron of the arts-other than for paintings of nudes, perhaps. And nudes were not either artist’s speciality.

“You sound surprised.”

“Your reputation is for other things.”

“That’s because gossip is by definition about other things,” he noted with a faint smile. “Scandal attracts more interest than cultural endeavors.”

“And you’re engaged in cultural endeavors?”

He laughed. “I’m pleased to see you’re not carping by nature. I know women who could seriously outrival that arch look of yours.”

“From all reports you know women who can do most anything.”

“While you’re a country mouse, bereft of feminine artifice,” he sardonically countered.

“Feminine artifice is beyond my scope. As for the country mouse, once perhaps I was,” she returned with a rueful smile. “But life and untoward circumstances intervene and alter one’s character whether one likes it or not.”

“Your husband’s gambling, for instance.”

She frowned. “You overstep, Groveland.”

“My apologies. So you became a managing woman,” he noted with a lifted brow.

She knew what he meant; she also knew a managing woman was not a charitable term. “Maybe I did,” she said, though because she had neither the inclination nor the resources to take on the idle role of society belle. “By necessity in the beginning and now by choice.” She smiled. “I’m not of your world, Groveland, nor do I aspire to that life.”

“You endorse socialist principles?” He didn’t care, but he enjoyed watching her, and to that purpose, he asked questions.

“I endorse helping those less fortunate. Call it what you like.”

“We all help those less fortunate.”

“If by we you mean those of your class, I beg to differ with you. There are nobles who have run their tenants off their land without a qualm, and others who live off the labor of their crofters without offering them a living wage.” She lifted her brows. “Do you want me to go on? The disparities between rich and poor are comprehensive and deplorable.”

“My tenants are well cared for and well paid.”

“Good for you.”

Her gaze had turned heated and not in a way that would advance either his business or personal desires. “Tell me what books your customers favor most. I expect there are certain subjects that sell better than others.”

How incredibly urbane he was, shifting facilely from the contentious issue of the poor to an innocuous topic without so much as a flicker of a pause. Understanding that she wasn’t going to humanize the aristocratic class with a few pithy comments to Groveland, she replied with equal civility. “Travel books are most popular, I suppose.” She dared not tell him the truth: erotica sold best.

“If you allowed me to purchase your store, you could travel wherever you liked.”

“My bookstore is earning a good return. I may soon travel without your money.”

“Soon?”

Good Lord, he was quick-witted. “My profits are increasing nicely.”

“I, on the other hand, could make you financially independent immediately. Twenty thousand would give you considerable independence.”

Good God! Twenty thousand! That’s three times his barrister’s last offer! Clearly, he is serious! She drew in a small sustaining breath, then set down her teacup, conscious that his cool gaze was scrutinizing her closely. “Your Grace, I don’t wish to lead you on,” she said, knowing she was perhaps being illogical, but allowing her heart to rule. “As I’ve already informed your many surrogates, I have no wish to sell. The bookstore is more than a profitable business; it’s my home and my passion-particularly with reference to my small charities. Helping others offers me enormous pleasure and a sense of fulfillment I’m not sure you’d understand. I’m sorry to be a hindrance to your plans, but I’m quite determined to stay here.”

“You only paid three thousand for the store,” Fitz pointed out, logical when she was not. “With twenty thousand, you could buy another store, do more charitable works, indulge your interest in travel. And in all candor,” he gently noted, setting down his teacup, “your property stands in the way of my project.”

A flush of anger instantly colored her cheeks. “Your project? What about mine?”

He frowned. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“I could say the same of you.”

“Do you realize you’re obstructing a major urban enterprise?”

“Your enterprise, you mean.”

“Of course that’s what I mean,” he irritably replied. “This little bookstore of yours could be anywhere; it doesn’t have to be on this particular corner.”

“I happen to like this particular corner.” Her voice had taken on the same contentious tone as his. “This is my home, Groveland. What if I asked you to sell Groveland House? Would you mind?”

“That’s different,” he brusquely retorted.

“Because it’s yours, you mean, and you’re rich as Croesus and you always get what you want!” Her voice had taken on a strident tone.

“I don’t,” he gruffly returned. “You’re quite wrong.” If I always got whatever I wanted, I would have had a different father and a different childhood. A normal one.

“Then you won’t find it so unusual when you don’t get my store!”

“It’s incomprehensible that you’d cut off your nose to spite your face,” he coldly rebuked. “I’m offering you twenty thousand for a store that’s worth three.”

“We disagree on what it’s worth,” she answered as coldly.

“You want more?” he said very, very softly. The woman had the instincts of a highwayman.

“Everything isn’t about money, Groveland!” How dare he speak to her in that accusing tone. “In fact, the things that truly matter are never about money! Not that someone like you could possibly understand! Now, do me a favor! Get out and leave me alone! Permanently!”

He was surprised at the degree of anger her tirade generated. Every muscle in his body was taut with rage. “There’s nothing I can say to change your mind? ” Twenty thousand was a goddamned fortune and she knew it.

“Not a thing!” Hot, bellicose words.

He was utterly still save for a muscle that twitched over his stark cheekbone. “I could make your life exceedingly difficult,” he said, his voice soft with menace.

She sat back in shock. “Are you threatening me?”

Pushing himself upright in his chair, he leaned forward slightly, the devil glowing in his eyes. “I am.”

Her spine went rigid. “Do what you will,” she snapped, furious at his arrogance. “I’m not selling!”

He came to his feet in a powerful surge. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he growled, towering over her.

“On the contrary,” she rebuked, looking up at him, her gaze flame hot, “I know very well who I’m dealing with! A spoiled, self-indulgent debauchee who’s never worked a day in his life or cared about anyone but himself! But I am not intimidated by your wealth and power! I’m here and I’m staying!” As if empowered by her heated words, she rose to her feet in a flash and jabbed her finger into the fine silk jacquard of his waistcoat. “Now, get out!”

He grabbed her wrist in a viselike grip. “You unmitigated bitch.”

She gasped in pain.

His fingers tightened for a flashing moment, then he abruptly released her and bending down so their eyes were level, whispered, fierce and low, “They say your husband jumped. Now I know why.”

She slapped him so hard, a stabbing pain shot down her arm.

He almost slapped her back but caught himself just short of her face. “This isn’t over,” he snarled, letting his hand drop. Turning, he strode away, nearly knocking over a rotund, middle-aged woman coming through the door.

“My goodness!” Mrs. Beecham murmured as soon as the duke slammed shut the shop door. “Was that the celebrated Duke of Groveland?”

“Yes.” With considerable effort Rosalind overcame the fury in her voice, the single word escaping in a sibilant hiss.

Mrs. Beecham was staring out the window at Groveland’s swiftly retreating form. “Can you imagine a man of his consequence coming into your little store?” she exclaimed in wonder. “Do you think he might return? I do so wish he might. He is quite the eligible party, my dear. I do hope you were on your best behavior with such a superior person.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Beecham. He is most unusual,” Rosalind said, curbing her inclination to describe his character in vile, graphic detail.

“Isn’t he just! Rich, handsome, with a distinguished, ancient title-and single, my dear. Even dukes marry beneath them on occasion. Did he seem taken with you? Perhaps even the slightest bit?” she queried, breathlessly.

“I didn’t detect that sort of interest, Mrs. Beecham,” Rosalind muttered.

Rosalind’s sarcasm wasted on her, Mrs. Beecham said with an insinuating little wink, “Well, if he returns, I’d suggest you put yourself out to please him. You have to think of your future, my dear. You’re out of mourning now, and you’re not getting any younger.”

“I’m sure Groveland is quite busy with the revels of fashionable society. I have no expectations, Mrs. Beecham-none at all. Now, let me show you the new novels that arrived yesterday. Mrs. Thornhill has written a most delightful story and I know she’s one of your favorites.”

After Groveland’s spiteful threats the last person she wished to discuss was his eminence, the most odious, hateful man in England!