Gorgeous as Sin (10 page)

Sitting back, he admired his handiwork, the vision lushly erotic, the voluptuous reclining female, thighs spread wide, was offering up her fruit-filled cunt for his pleasure. And he thanked whatever random act of fate had brought him here tonight, Mrs. St. Vincent one of the more delectable morsels he’d seen in a very long time. She was flushed in arousal, her eyes shut, her mouth slightly open, her fevered moans softly audible.

Would she come if he touched her?

Or how soon would she come if he touched her?

He proceeded to find out.

With extreme delicacy, he ran his finger over the strained membrane of her labia, pressing gently against the soft fruit imbedded in her cunt, bending low to draw one nipple into his mouth as he caressed her ripe sex.

Whimpering, tormented by the sweet ache throbbing between her legs, her body gorged, her sense of self disappearing in the torrid heat of an all-consuming sexual hysteria, she wondered if he was right after all. That she wanted taming at some primal level, wished to be an object of lust. Like this—like now, offering her breasts to be suckled, lavishly filled to overflowing, bursting at the seams, receptive and submissive, enslaved to the passion he evoked.

Attuned to female arousal, recognizing the rising pitch of her whimpers, his fingers sliding more easily over her drenched slit, the peach inside, slick with pearly fluid, he lifted his mouth from her nipple. “The sultan will be watching now, so be on your best behavior.”

She only half heard him, overwrought, so near to orgasm his voice came from a great distance. But instinctively, selfishly, nearly wild with longing, she breathed, “I’ll be good,” because she knew that’s what he wanted to hear.

There was no reason to feel such gloating satisfaction at her blanket submission; he immediately chided himself for such vanity. And then because he was adored for his kindness in the boudoir and not his physical splendor alone, he set about furnishing the lady with a richly deserved climax. Uncrossing her ankles, he made room for himself between her legs, drew her engorged clit into his mouth and licked and sucked with exquisite restraint, with unstinting competence, with a crucial sense of place. With a flare for timing.

She screamed much louder that time, he thought, but then she’d waited longer than usual.

As her breathing returned to normal, he gently soothed her, running his hands slowly down her arms, over her breasts, delicately brushing her eyebrows, skimming her flushed cheeks with his fingertips, tracing the smooth curve of her belly with his warm palm. And after a time, moving his hand lower.

She jerked awake as he exerted pressure on the peach. “No, no . . . no more.”

He gazed up at her from between her legs. “Hush, darling, you always want more. Trust me.”

She had no way of knowing he was right until afterward. She never did. But having stood stud to a good many women in London, he did. And after her third climax, he ate the peach in situ, not spilling so much as a drop of juice, bringing the lady to a shrieking orgasm once again. He wondered if Mrs. St. Vincent and Sally would enjoy each other’s company, similarly inclined as they were to delight in peaches.

Moments later, as Rosalind lay in a deeply sated torpor, Fitz came up on his knees and entered her very, very gently, barely moving until she opened her eyes, smiled up at him, and whispered, “Don’t ever go.”

“Not likely,” he said with an answering smile, in full agreement about the merits of carnal sensation. “How are you feeling?”

“Sexy,” she purred. “Very, very sexy.”

“Then there’s no need for me to say, ‘Ignore me, this won’t take long,’ ” he observed with a grin.

“Since I seem to be addicted, no. Take all the time you want.”

He did, and they both entered a new realm of sensation, one where sentiment intruded into sensual pleasure and tenderness pervaded even the most self-indulgent, prurient play.

Very late that night as they lay postcoital, panting side by side, he turned his head and said with a smile, “I’d be more than willing to shower you with gold . . . my darling Danae of Bruton Street. Just say the word. I’m totally bewitched.”

“Speaking of bewitchment,” she murmured, wallowing in bliss, “I’m going to need... just a little more of him.” Reaching over in a lazy drift of her arm, she ran her fingertip down his rampant erection. “You have the most phenomenal cock. He’s indefatigable and most charitable. Thank you, Your Grace,” she teasingly purred.

Since she’d been effusive in her thanks, he already knew she was appreciative. The question was whether he could keep up with her. So far so good. But he was well aware that tonight would be a record of sorts for him; that from a man who already held all the confirmed records in the world of amour. “Give me a minute,” he said, good-humored and obliging. “I’ll be right with you.”

On the other hand, the thought of fucking himself to death with the hot-blooded Mrs. St. Vincent was not without its novel appeal.

Chapter 10

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

Nor was it likely the last.

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

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

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

So he did. Ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God no. It’s nothing of the kind.”

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

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

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

He heard the jewelry hit the door.

Bitch, he thought.

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

To the dissolute Groveland, naturally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

How could she have so forgotten herself?

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

Revenge is sweet
had been coined for just such occasions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How fitting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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