Seduction in Mind (29 page)

What really wasn't fair was that he could as easily change any woman's mind. For a jealous moment, she wished him and all his paramours to the devil.

Cooler counsel surfaced a moment later, and she reminded herself that she had been fully aware of his reputation before she embarked on that first fateful carriage ride. And his seduction last night had been delectable and enchanting as usual. So much as she'd like to blame him, she had no one to blame but herself.

Not a particularly consoling thought, nor one that brought her any measure of peace.

Damn him and his irresistible allure.

When Rosalind walked into Alex's studio that evening, Alex's mood hadn't improved. She'd actually drunk two brandies in an effort to mitigate the worst of her temper, canceled two appointments, tried to nap without success, dusted her entire studio, after which she made a note to increase her maid's wages or throw out some of the porcelain and artifacts littering her shelves and tables. And now she was seriously thinking about going to see Harry—as a diversion to her black mood.

"See Harry later," Rosalind suggested, standing in the doorway of the dust-free studio. "Right now you have to dress. Have you forgotten we're expected at Caroline's for dinner?"

Alex didn't move from her Empire chaise, her gaze, if not sullen, decidedly morose. "I'm not going."

Rosalind settled into a chair in a rustle of pale blue silk, her matching pale blue gaze direct. "Ranelagh's not worth it," she said briskly.

A flash of surprise crossed Alex's face. "Is it that obvious?"

Leaning forward in a twinkle of sapphire ear drops, Rosalind patted Alex's hand. "He's the divine and glorious Ranelagh, darling. What did you expect?"

"Perhaps I didn't realize the full extent of his deification," Alex muttered.

"His godlike attributes are well known to anyone interested in dalliance. You've just never concerned yourself with amour before. If you want my advice, I'd suggest you get up, get dressed, go out tonight, and forget Ranelagh."

"Because he's sure to forget me, you mean."

Rosalind lifted one bare shoulder. "How blunt do you wish me to be?" And when Alex didn't answer, she said, "He leaves them all. But it's not as though you're looking for more." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you?"

"No, of course not. In fact, I'm angry with him. Or, more aptly, resentful of his damned expertise—oh, hell… of all the women. I refuse to be another of the hundreds or thousands. I left him this morning while he was sleeping."

"Really. He must have been surprised when he woke. How clever of you to leave him guessing. I don't expect that ever happens to him."

"I wasn't intending to be clever. He annoyed me." But Rosalind's remark offered a new interpretation of Sam's displeasure with her seeing Harry. Was his vanity involved rather than his feelings?

Rosalind leaned forward in her chair. "Tell me everything."

"Relax, Rosie. There's no juicy gossip to offer up. We just argued about my seeing Harry. For some reason, Ranelagh felt he could tell me what to do." She didn't mention their disagreement over the child because Rosalind wouldn't possibly understand.

"Do you think you were mistaken? It hardly seems like Ranelagh to restrict a woman's friendships."

"I could have been mistaken, I suppose."

"You're not in this mood just because Ranelagh didn't want you to see Harry?"

Alex shrugged. "No—I don't know; I'm not sure what I think. I'm trying to sort out my feelings."

"So you have feelings for him." Rosalind made a small moue. "I'm not sure that's wise, darling… considering—well, considering the sheer number of women who have passed through his life."

"Which is the pertinent point, is it not?" Alex sighed softly. "I'm trying to deal with this whole episode wisely."

"Good for you. We'll go to Caroline's tonight and you can show everyone your liaison with Ranelagh has not impaired your better judgment."

"But Caroline's." Alex wrinkled her nose. "It's sure to be boring."

"If you recall, she's invited the entire Russian ballet troupe currently onstage at the Apollo. It's their night off, and both Serge Voronkin and Nikki Linsky are enough to take anyone's mind off anything at all…" Rosalind's pale brows rose and her smile was suggestive. "Just a passing thought to jog you out of that chaise."

"I suppose it's better than drowning my sorrows in vile brandy."

"You can drown your sorrows in Serge's soulful Slavic gaze instead. Or if you're not in the mood to throw yourself into another man's arms, maybe you could talk to Serge and Nikki about painting their portraits in their costumes from
Boris Godunov
. I adore those form-fitting ballet tights, and you might too"—her brows arched upward—"if you know what I mean."

Alex laughed. "Have you nothing better to do than suggest lovers for me?"

"But, darling, think how much more exciting my life has become now that you're a wicked widow."

"I wish I were a wicked widow; then I could cavalierly deal with men like. Sam Lennox. Although if I'm to serve as surrogate for your virtuous life, kindly find me someone who will be enchanting but not
too
enchanting. I don't want to want a man like I want Sam."

"But it's his specialty, my dear. Why wouldn't he be a superb lover? A diversion will do you good. Wear your Indian silk tonight and those wonderful diamond earrings you bought in Paris, and I'll see that you meet Serge and Nikki." Rosalind smiled. "Would you like them both?"

"That certainly would be in the nature of a diversion," Alex noted sardonically. "If I felt like talking to a man—which I don't."

"Nonsense," Rosalind replied, not inclined to leave without her friend. "Wait until you meet Serge."

With Rosalind's nudging and cajoling, Alex was eventually dressed, the vivid gold-shot turquoise silk a resplendent foil for her auburn hair and creamy skin. The sheer silk overlay a crepe slip in a matching hue, the low décolletage and jeweled belt of flamboyant gems a lure to the eye. It was a dramatic gown. But in the mood she was in, Alex welcomed the drama. At least, it offered an alternative to her peevishness. It served as well to project a dégagé image that suggested she was perfectly fine without Ranelagh, because everyone at dinner would have heard of their liaison.

She wanted to show them she was in excellent spirits.

See.

Dinner was less boring than she'd expected. The darkly handsome Serge sat beside her and flattered her with his attention. He had long black hair, Oriental eyes, high cheekbones, and a muscled body that was evident even beneath his superbly tailored evening clothes. She enjoyed their bantering conversation as much as she enjoyed his descriptions of his native country. But when he began to rub his foot against hers as they were finishing their desserts, she found herself profoundly indifferent—as though her brother might have accidentally touched her.

Was something wrong with her? she wondered. She glanced at him as though trying to find some reason to respond.

He smiled.

She smiled back.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked, soft suggestion in his voice.

She was about to refuse, when Caroline cried, "Sam, you darling! You came after all!"

Everyone's gaze turned to the door.

Dazzlingly handsome, resplendent in white tie and tails, his dark hair gleaming in the lamplight, the Viscount Ranelagh bestowed a smile on his hostess. "You're the only cousin I like," he drawled softly, but the room was so quiet, his voice carried to the farthest corner.

And the faint slur of intoxication couldn't be missed.

Caroline rose from her seat at the head of the table. "We were just finishing, darling. I don't expect you came to dine," she added, moving toward the man who could make any reception a success. It was a decided coup that Sam had come, although there was little doubt who had drawn him here. "Would you like to lead me out in the first dance?"

He bowed with exquisite finesse and offered her his hand.

Those gauging the degree of his drunkenness took note of his grace. Not too drunk, but then, when was he?

As Caroline and Sam entered the ballroom moments later, the orchestra began playing and most of the guests followed their hostess and Ranelagh onto the dance floor. The viscount partnered his cousin twice and then proceeded to systematically bestow his charm and waltzing skills on every female in the room. Save Alex. A fact noted by all.

Refusing to regard the curious looks and the occasional blunt query, Alex gave her attention to the inevitable array of suitors, entertaining them all with wit and charm. She danced almost every dance and never once looked in Sam's direction. But as midnight approached, the tension in her shoulders was becoming unbearable, while her splitting headache made it almost impossible to smile. Serge had taken his conge with good grace, and ever since, Alex had been looking for an opportunity to leave. When her most recent dance partner went to fetch her a lemonade, she found herself momentarily alone, and seizing the chance, she quickly slipped into a curtained alcove that opened onto a servants' passage.

In moments she found her way to the main corridor. She ran down the stairs, reaching the entrance hall without meeting anyone. After a footman brought out her wrap, she dismissed his offer to call her carriage. "My driver is just outside," she said. "I'm perfectly fine."

Which she wasn't. She had to get away from Sam and all the women fawning over him. She had to get a grip on her emotions.

Hurrying down the brick drive, she counted the carriages as she passed, anticipating the moment of her deliverance. When she'd reach hers, climb in, and shut the door.

"How was Harry?"

The voice was familiar, close, scented with brandy.

But she didn't stop because she wasn't capable of being as casual as he when she would have much preferred hitting him or screaming at him or making love to him—or maybe all three together. When none were appropriate. When none would solve her dilemma.

Suddenly, she was lifted off her feet, spun around, and set down again, although the grip on her waist didn't loosen.

"How was Harry?" Sam repeated, his voice whisper soft, his dark gaze only inches away.

"I don't have to tell you." Even to her ears she sounded petulant.

"Are you a child or—"

"Are you?" she snapped. "You're not exactly acting like an adult. And you're drunk."

"I'm never drunk."

"Should we take a vote among the guests?"

"I don't give a damn about the guests. Tell me about Harry."

"Why don't you tell me about Adelaide or Charlotte or Helen, not to mention Tatiana, Barbara, Lydia, and Nadia. Have I left out anyone tonight?"

"They were all boring, if you must know. Now, about Harry. Did you fuck him?"

"Maybe I did and maybe I didn't. It's none of your business."

Tightening his grip, he jerked her hard against his body. "Perhaps I'm just a little drunk," he admitted, his gaze half lidded. "I suggest you answer me."

"If I scream, Sam, there are any number of drivers and retainers who will hear. We're not in the Adelphi, where your servants do what you wish. So it might be wise if you release me and I'll bid you good night."

"Do you think I care about the drivers and servants?" Abruptly lifting her into his arms, he protected her face with one hand and strode through the yew hedge bordering the drive. Coming out the other side, he glanced around, getting his bearings.

"I'm going to scream," she hissed, the scent of pine in her hair.

"Go ahead." He started walking.

Taking note of their isolation, she understood his indifference. "Sam, this is medieval," she said in what she hoped was a reasonable voice. "I'm already furious with you, and this is only—"

"
I've
been furious since you left this morning."

"I took issue with being seduced against my will last night," she said coolly.

He snorted.

"I
wanted
to leave."

"Sure you did. After which climax? The first or the tenth?"

"Fine. You're the quintessential stud. Is that what you want to hear?"

"What I want to hear is whether you fucked Harry today."

"No, I didn't. I know that might be hard for someone like you to fathom, but there it is. Welcome to the real world."

A smile appeared on his face. "Why didn't you say so before?"

"Because I didn't want to see you smile like that, that's why."

"You must have disappointed him."

"Yes, I'm sure I did. Just like you disappointed all the ladies at Caroline's who were hoping to share your bed tonight."

"The night's not over yet."

She slapped him so hard, the pain jarred her shoulder.

He grunted but didn't miss a stride. "I'll fuck you first, darling." His voice was silky. "So save your energy."

"No you won't," she said through gritted teeth.

"Allow me to disagree. With a hot little cunt like yours, you're always ready for fucking. All those old men made you hungry for cock."

"You—you… insolent, despicable, swaggering bastard! Put me down this instant!"

"I'll be putting you down in my bed, or if you really can't wait, we'll do it in my carriage on the way to my apartment."

"Sam!" She struggled against his hold. "I don't want this!" Kicking and twisting, she pummeled him with her fists. "I don't want you! I don't, I don't, I don't!"

Immune to her assault, he only tightened his hold and continued his progress through Caroline's moonlit garden.

The brute strength of his hard, muscled body, the effortless way in which he carried her, his purposeful lust, provoked a small, fevered intoxication… insidious, alarming—tantalizing. She steeled herself against the sensations, but the first tiny ripples irrepressibly cascaded down her vagina, the beginning pulse of arousal warmed her blood, a breathlessness quite apart from her struggles made itself known, and try as she might to ignore the piquant heat, she couldn't deny it. Horrified at her response, she went still, appalled to find herself no different from all the others.