Susan Johnson: Gorgeous As Sin

Surely he could charm one woman into accepting his offer-particularly a destitute female. Accepting his glass from Hutchinson, he listened while the barrister explained in some detail the entire litany of recent property purchased for what would soon become Monckton Row-God willing and Groveland’s cultivated charm gainfully applied.

When Hutchinson’s recitation came to an end, the duke held out his glass for a refill. “Now, tell me what to expect from this curious woman. If she’s a widow, she must not be in her first blush. And I gather she isn’t a lady of the night or an actress. Would she be predisposed to some small gift-flowers, candy, a bit of jewelry perhaps? You’re certain, too, she knows who I am.”

“I assume so, Your Grace,” Hutchinson replied, pouring a goodly bumper of whiskey into the outstretched glass. “She cited you by name as she consigned you to Hades. As to her age, she’s not young, but she’s not old; she has reddish hair and is above-average height, I believe,” the barrister explained like a man without an ounce of the Lothario in his soul-a man incapable of describing his wife or daughters without a photograph in hand. “In terms of a gift, I confess, sir, you might know about that better than I.” Groveland was not called The Monk without express and explicit irony.

“Is there anything about her deceased husband or her background that might be useful for me to know? The bookshop is a relatively recent addition to the neighborhood if I’m not mistaken.” He often walked by it en route to Bond Street.

“It’s been there almost seven years, Your Grace. Edward St. Vincent was a poet of some small fame thanks to the Queen’s interest in his work, but apparently he was a gamester as well and not a very good one. There were rumors about his death-that he may have taken a hand in ending his life, but it’s impossible to know, of course. Not that losses at cards aren’t often a precursor to self-destruction. We all know such instances.

“As for the widow herself, she is of respectable birth. She enjoys the title, the Honorable Rosalind Pitt-Riverston, but her family is without fortune. Her father, Baron Pitt-Riverston, dabbles in the natural sciences I’ve been told. In some remote area of Yorkshire, I believe.”

“So she is not a working-class female.”

“No. On the contrary. She exudes an air of hauteur.”

Groveland’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t say.” He lifted the glass to his mouth and drank down the whiskey as if it might better clarify his thoughts.

“Indeed, I do,” Hutchinson retorted with a decided sniff. “I was sent on my way with the most high-handed arrogance.”

“Hmm. Audacious and difficult.”

Hutchinson grunted. “A vast understatement, Your Grace.”

The duke held out his empty glass. “One more of your fine whiskeys and then I will take myself off to reconnoiter the formidable opposition.”

But as it turned out, when the duke exited Hutchinson’s faux-Renaissance office block, he ran into Viscount Islay.

“Hi-ho, Fitz!” the viscount cried. “I hear you’re rid of Clarissa. What say you to a game at Brooks’s? ”

“Christ, gossip travels fast.” He’d just left Clarissa three hours ago.

“Margot Beaton stopped by to see my sister as I was leaving home. She was just down from Knolly’s country house party. She despises Clarissa by the way.”

“Most women do,” the duke replied drily.

“And most men don’t.”

Groveland raised his dark brows in sportive rejoinder. “But then Clarissa exerts herself to please men.”

“How much did she exert herself for you?” the viscount quipped.

“She wore me out, hence my rustication in the city. And I’d be more than happy to take some of your money at Brooks’s,” the duke said with a smile, uninterested in discussing Clarissa after a fortnight in her company.

Freddie Mackenzie grinned. “You can try, you mean.”

“But not very hard as I recall?”

Freddie was sober, however, so he paid attention to his cards and taking his money required a degree more concentration than normal for Fitz. But the duke was as lucky at cards as he was with women and ultimately he prospered for having met the viscount.

In the course of their play, the men met several other of their friends, one thing led to another, and it was well after midnight when Fitz stood under Brooks’s portico, inhaling the tepid night air and debating his options. There were numerous ladies more than willing to welcome him to their beds despite the hour, but after only recently escaping Clarissa he wasn’t particularly in the mood to play amorous games. Clarissa could suck the life out of a twenty-year-old stud, not to mention her propensity for banal conversation took away one’s taste-at least temporarily-for vapid female company.

Her acrobatic abilities aside, he should have sent her home a week ago.

Had he been less polite perhaps he wouldn’t now be beset by ennui and indecision.

He abruptly shrugged, having long ago decided that regret was a useless commodity. Bidding a friendly goodnight to Crawford, the seemingly immortal doorman, he took the stairs in a leap and strolled away toward Berkeley Square and home.

Tomorrow he would meet with the intractable Mrs. St. Vincent.

He much preferred tomorrows to yesterdays in any event-his life predicated on the maxim Never look back . A reaction perhaps to a complicated, chaotic childhood.

And truth be told, he was looking forward to the confrontation-discussion, negotiation… whatever his encounter with Mrs. St. Vincent entailed.

He was rather of the mind that he would win the day, though.

Didn’t he always?

WHILE THE DUKE of Groveland was making his way home through the gaslit streets of Mayfair, Rosalind St. Vincent was seated at her writing table, nibbling at her penholder, trying to dredge up a synonym for penis that she hadn’t already used a million times. Not that she had the leisure to deliberate for long when the next installment of Lady Blessington’s Harem Adventure was scheduled for the printer in the morning and she still had ten pages to write.

Why not the eunuch’s golden horn ? The story took place in Constantinople, after all; she rather liked the play on words. And the eunuch wasn’t really a eunuch-a nice little plot twist if she said so herself.

But not half as nice as the lucrative erotica market that her well-mannered, cultivated husband had discovered. Not that she had known about Edward’s alternate writing career until after his death when she’d discovered the manuscripts in his armoire. In the course of searching for something suitable in which to bury him, she’d found the neatly tied volumes hidden behind his coats, each cover page bearing a notation of the sum realized for the work.

She’d been shocked, both by the discovery and the substantial proceeds such stories commanded. Erotica appeared to be considerably more profitable than poetry.

While Edward had been lauded and feted when his first poems had been published and he’d savored his celebrity, it had soon become apparent that fame was fleeting and the earnings from his verse would not long sustain a household.

Of course, Edward’s unfortunate addiction to gaming had also contributed to their financial problems. As did his unfortunate lack of initiative. And his guileless propensity to befriend unsavory characters. He was gulled by swindlers and artful dodges on more occasions than she wished to recall-always by men he’d perceived as bosom compatriots.

She’d always forgiven him, though. He was so sweet and naive.

Perhaps they both had been at one time.