Seduction in Mind (4 page)

Miss Ionides embodied a flamboyant wantonness. Lying partially on her side, her supple body was flexed faintly at the waist so the curve of her hip was thrown into provocative silhouette. Her head and one shoulder rested on a sumptuous pile of plum-colored brocade pillows, the small feather fan she held over her mons the only nod to modesty in the flagrantly sensual pose. The contrast of her warm, glowing flesh against the cool marble backdrop and the luxurious fur was riveting, as was the voluptuous splendor of her body. Her breasts were enormous and plump, dangling like delicious ripe fruit with the slightly forward twist of her torso, her waist was hands-span narrow—which enchanting thought added dimension to Sam's arousal. As for her slender, shapely legs, he reflected, his gaze traveling leisurely down her form, surely they were made to be wrapped around him.

He was so hard, he was aching, the eroticism so explicit and palpable, he was hard pressed not to stride up to her and carry her off like some marauding barbarian at the gates of Rome.

Suddenly aware he might not be the only man on the scene so inclined, Sam shot a glance at the artist, who was applying paint to the canvas with a decided ferocity. Moved to action by the sight, Sam shoved open the door and strode in. "Forgive me for intruding." His voice was too curt for true apology. "I have a message for Miss Ionides."

Masking her shock, Alex didn't know if she should be gratified or angry at Ranelagh's intrusion. Her second irrelevant thought was that he hadn't changed, as though it mattered a whit that he still wore his day clothes when she wore none. She sat up as Sir Lawrence moved to intercept Sam's progress.

"We're busy, sir," the artist said gruffly, standing solidly in Sam's way. "You must leave."

"This won't take long," Sam replied, coming to a stop, glancing at the man's crotch. Either Alma-Tadema had enormous restraint or was a eunuch, he decided. His affability restored, Sam's voice took on a new degree of courtesy. "My compliments on your painting of the lady, Sir Lawrence. Could I buy it?"

The artist hesitated, wondering if he'd imagined the rude glance. Sam's expression was completely benign. "I'm afraid it's already sold," he finally said, giving the viscount the benefit of the doubt.

"To whom?"

"Mr. Cassels."

"A shame. It's very beautiful."

"Alex is an exceptional lady."

"How so?" The words were suddenly abrupt, cool, all traces of amiability stripped away.

The painter squarely met the displeasure in Sam's gaze. "I don't see that it's your concern."

Both men were large, fit, and obviously disinclined to back down, Alex suspected, if their pugnacious poses were any indication. Since she had no wish to become the center of an embarrassing altercation, she said quickly, "Never mind, Larry. I'll speak with Ranelagh."

"You see?" Sam nodded a cool dismissal at his opponent.

Sir Lawrence cast a searching glance at Alex.

"I'm fine," she asserted. "Really."

As Sam approached the dais, Alex tried to curb the heat rising to her face. He seemed larger than she'd remembered, and disconcertingly more handsome. Forcibly tamping down the flush of excitement that gripped her senses, she said crisply, "You shouldn't be here, but since you are and since I prefer you not grapple with Larry, kindly state your business and be on your way."

It took him a fraction of a second to answer because the view at close range was glorious.

She'd considered covering herself with the fur rug when he'd walked in, but it seemed too exaggerated and dramatic a gesture. She wasn't some innocent maiden. She'd posed nude before and she was comfortable in her skin. "If you're done looking…" she said coolly.

Reminded of his manners, his gaze traveled to her eyes and he smiled. "I saw your carriage outside, and I was hoping you might be free tonight."

"I'm sorry, I'm not." Temperate, imperturbable words.

He gave her high points for poise. She might have been refusing an invitation to tea… and, more to the point, been fully clothed. But his equanimity had been honed in the school of debauch, and it was impossible so tame a circumstance would extinguish it.

"Tomorrow, then?" he said with an equivalent dispassion.

"I'm afraid I'm busy tomorrow as well."

"You're not actually
afraid
, are you?" Was it possible beneath the cool gaze?

She shook her head, and a fortune in diamonds swung from her earlobes. "I'm simply not interested."

"Could I convince you somehow"—his voice dropped a half octave—"to
become
interested?"

In the deepening shadows, the unadorned grace of his face and form almost took her breath away—her artist's eye in awe of such stark, sensual beauty. She'd been trying, with difficulty, not to take notice of his splendid looks and, more particularly, of his sizable erection lifting the soft wool of his trousers. "I believe we've had this conversation before, and my feelings haven't changed." She kept her tone neutral with effort. His arousal was fascinatingly large.

"I could contrive to mend my ways."

A rush of heat spiked through her body at his wicked smile. "You don't mean it, my lord. We both know that."

But a faint equivocation in her voice quickened his senses. Did she mean no or not? Or how much did she mean it? His nostrils flared as though he might catch scent of the truth. Then a singularly familiar fragrance drifted into his nostrils, and his understanding was no longer in question. He recognized the redolent perfume of female arousal. Glancing downward, his gaze settled on the juncture of her thighs.

Her auburn curls melted into the soft sable fur, and she was getting wet for him.

"What if I really did mean it?" he said, heated and low, his gaze returning to hers. "What then?"

The lust in his eyes excited her, stirred and thrilled her, when she should despise a man who made love only for sport.

But he moved a step closer, leaned in, and whispered in a velvety tone, "We'll do whatever you want to do… you set the limits—you give the orders."

For a reckless moment, she wanted to clutch the heavy black silk of his hair, pull him close, and kiss him hard—in prelude to what he so temptingly offered. Clenching her fists against the rash impulse, she said instead, "I don't want to give orders."

"Better yet."

She shivered faintly at the implication.

"If I were to touch you… there"—he gestured languidly at her mons, and she found herself gauging the length of his long, large fingers—"I guarantee you'll change your mind."

"If you dare," she said tersely, feeling as though she were suffocating, "you'll never touch me again."

Her phrasing gave him pause, her "again" tantalizing—a myriad of possibilities instantly reverberating through his brain. "Tell me where or when or how"—his smile was carnal and lush—"or we could leave now and you could… show me."

A clamorous ringing crash shattered the heated ferment.

Sam didn't turn his head. "It doesn't matter," he breathed.

But Alex looked, and like a sluice of icy water rushing in, the world intruded. Larry was reaching down to pick up the fallen container and scattered brushes from the puddle of linseed oil spreading over the floor.

Leaping to her feet, Alex shoved past Sam before she lost her resolve and jumped from the dais.

He could have stopped her if he'd wished, but no one could accuse him of being gauche. And he understood with a libertine's expertise, it was only a matter of time before the skittish Miss Ionides yielded. Watching her stride away, Sam admired her beauty and nerve, not to mention the silken sway of her hips.

She was going to be one hot little piece, he thought pleasantly.

When she disappeared from sight, the studio was eerily silent.

Moving toward Alma-Tadema, Sam issued a well-mannered and self-possessed smile, as though he'd not just tried to seduce the artist's model. "Do you think Cassels might be talked into selling your painting to me?" he inquired, the cultivated world of the aristocracy in every smooth syllable.

Alma-Tadema shrugged. "Who knows?" Alex had escaped; he could be urbane as well.

Sam's mouth curved into a rueful smile. "You dropped those brushes on purpose, didn't you?"

The painter's expression was bland. "You'll have to do your courting on your own time, my lord."

"You're her champion, I presume." Sam's gaze narrowed as he approached the man. "Or are you more?"

"That would be for Alex to say."

"Your wife doesn't mind?"

"I'd say ask her, but you probably would. And I'm not obliged to suffer rudeness in my own home."

Sam sighed. "My apologies. Miss Ionides has put me out of countenance."

"You and a good many other men. You're not alone, if that's any consolation."

"It's not," Sam replied curtly.

Sir Lawrence smiled for the first time. "My condolences."

"Amusing, I'm sure." Sam bowed stiffly. "I'll bid you good night. My compliments on your talent. The painting of Miss Ionides is superb."

And he intended to own it just as soon as he found Cassels.

But much later, as the first light of day fringed the horizon, Lord Ranelagh walked away from Hattie Martin's luxurious brothel pervaded with a deep sense of dissatisfaction. What had previously passed for pleasure seemed wearisome now, a jaded sense of sameness enervated his soul, and sullen and moody, even the glorious sunrise failed to please him.

Walking home through the quiet streets, he was plagued with thoughts of the bewitching Miss Ionides, wondering where she'd slept or, like he, not slept—which rankling thought further lowered his spirits. And by the time he'd reached his town house, he'd run through a mental list of any number of men who might be her lovers, the image of her delectable body in the arms of another man inexplicably disagreeable.

It shouldn't be. He should be immune to the nature of her liaisons. He hadn't even met the damned woman a day ago and there was no earthly reason he should care who the hell she slept with.

He snapped at the hall porter when he entered his house, immediately apologized at the man's stricken expression, and after making some banal excuse, pressed ten guineas into the servant's hand. When he walked into his bedroom a few moments later, he waved a restraining hand at his valet, who came awake with a start and jumped to his feet. "Go back to sleep, Rory. I can undress myself. In fact, take the day off. I won't be needing you."

His young manservant immediately evinced concern. The viscount was accustomed to being waited on, his family's fortune having insulated him from the mundane details of living.

Recognizing his valet's hesitation, Sam said, "I'll be fine."

"You're sure?"

"Why not take Molly for a walk in the park," the viscount suggested, knowing of Rory's affection for the downstairs maid. "She may have the day off as well."

"Thank you, sir!"

"Go, now." Sam waved him off. "All I want to do is sleep."

In a more perfect world he might have slept, considering he'd been up for twenty-four hours; but Miss Ionides was putting period to the perfection of his world
and
to his peace of mind. He tossed and turned for more than an hour before throwing aside the blanket and stalking over to a small table holding two decanters of liquor. Pouring himself a considerable amount of cognac, he dropped into an upholstered chair and, sliding into a sprawl, contemplated the injustice of Miss Ionides being so damned desirable.

Half a bottle of cognac later, he'd decided he'd simply have to fuck her and put an end to his lust and her damnable allure. He further decided his powerful craving was just the result of his not having what he wanted—her. And once he made love to the delectable Miss Ionides, that craving would be assuaged. Familiarity breeding contempt, as they say, had been the common pattern of his sexual amusements. In his experience, one woman was very much like another once the game was over.

But this particular game of seduction was just beginning, and glancing out the window, he took note of the position of the sun in the sky. The races would be starting soon at Ascot, the entire week scheduled with prestigious races, the Season bringing all of society to the track.

Including Miss Ionides, if he didn't miss his guess.

Rising from his chair, he walked to the bellpull and rang for a servant. He needed a bath.

His butler walked into his bedroom a second later, not in response to his summons—with a message instead.

"There's someone to see you, sir."

Owens's tone was such that Sam's gaze turned wary. "Who?"

"Your mother, my lord."

"At this damned hour?" Already bad-tempered and moody after his dissatisfying night, the last person Sam cared to see was his mother. "Does she know I'm home?"

"She saw your hat and gloves on the console table."

The viscount swore. "I don't suppose you could tell her I was sleeping?"

"She ordered me to wake you, sir."

The viscount swore again. "Don't send her up." His voice was brusque. "I'll come down."

"She's in the breakfast room, sir, having her breakfast."

"While she's ruined mine," Sam said.

The butler glanced at the glass of cognac the viscount held in his hand, his expression bland. "A shame, sir, but she wouldn't be deterred."

"Is she ever?"

It wasn't a question that required an answer, or certainly not one by a servant.

"Tell her I'll be down in ten minutes," Sam said curtly.

When the viscount entered the breakfast room a half hour later, bathed, dressed, and more tranquil for the three additional drinks he had imbibed, he was able to say "Good morning, Mother" with a modicum of courtesy.

"Your chef burned my toast," his mother noted irritably.

"I'll have him fired on the spot."

"I see your caustic sense of humor is undiminished."

"You're up early," he replied, not about to trade insults. He and his parents agreed on very little; they saw each other less. And if his mother was calling on him at what was for her the crack of dawn, she brought trouble for certain. He remained standing.