Susan Johnson: Seduction in Mind

"There won't be another time, my lord."

"If I were a betting man-"

"But you are." Equal to his reputation as a libertine was his penchant for high-stakes betting. It was the talk of London at the moment, for he'd just won fifty thousand on the first race at Ascot yesterday.

He smiled. "It was merely an expression. Do I call you Mrs. Courts or the dowager countess?"

"I prefer my maiden name."

"Then, Miss Ionides, what I was about to say was that if I were a betting man, I'd lay odds we were about to become good friends."

"You're too arrogant, Ranelagh. I'm not eighteen and easily infatuated by a handsome man, even one of your remarkable good looks."

"While I'm not only fascinated by a woman of your dazzling beauty, but intrigued with your unconventional attitude toward female nudity."

"Because I pose nude, you think me available?"

The merest smile appeared on his lips. "So blunt, Miss Ionides."

"You weren't interested in taking me to tea, I presume."

"We'll do whatever you like," he replied, the suggestion in his voice so subtle, his virtuosity couldn't be faulted. And that, of course, was the problem.

"You've more than enough ladies in your train, Ranelagh. You won't miss me."

"You're sure?" he pursued. "I can't change your mind?"

"Absolutely sure… and no," she declared firmly.

"A shame."

"Speak for yourself. I have a full and gratifying life. If you'll excuse me, Frederic," she said, addressing her host as she rose to her feet. "I have an appointment elsewhere."

The viscount had come to his feet. "May I offer you a ride to your appointment?"

She surveyed him slowly from head to toe, her gaze coming to rest after due deliberation on his amused countenance. "No, you may not."

"I'm crushed," he said, grinning.

"But not for long, I'm sure," she replied crisply, and waving at Leighton and the other men, she walked away.

Everyone followed her progress across the large room, and only when she'd disappeared through the high Moorish arch did conversation resume.

"She's astonishingly beautiful," George Howard said. "I can see why you have her pose for you."

"She deigns to pose for me," Leighton corrected his friend. "I'm only deeply grateful, because she models infrequently and according to whim. Although, Alma-Tadema has intrigued her with his newest project." He offered the men a self-deprecating smile. "We're currently competing for her time."

"I'm surprised a woman of her magnificence isn't married again."

"She has notable wealth from both her family and husbands and she prefers her freedom," Leighton offered. "Or so she says."

"From that tone of voice, I'm surmising you've proposed," Eddie observed. "And been refused."

Leighton dipped his handsome leonine head in acknowledgment. "At least I'm in good company. Rumor has it she's turned down most everyone."

"Most?" Sam regarded the artist from beneath his long lashes, his lazy sprawl the picture of indolence.

"She has an occasional affair, I'm told."

"By whom?" Ranelagh's voice was very soft. "With whom?"

"Kemp seems to know. I believe he's acquainted with Alex's maid."

"With whom is she currently entertaining herself then, pray tell." The viscount moved from his lounging pose, his gaze suddenly intent.

"No one I know. A young art student for a time." He shrugged. "A banker she knew through her husband. A priest, someone said." He shook his head. "Only gossip, you understand. Alex keeps her private life private."

"And yet she's willing to pose nude-a blatantly public act."

"She's wealthy enough to do as she pleases… as you no doubt understand," Leighton noted with an urbane smile. "While a model is generally nameless anyway, particularly in cases like this, where a lady prefers a degree of anonymity."

"Like a Madame X."

Leighton shrugged again. "Something like that, I suppose. Although, keep in mind, Alex is also an artist in her own right. She views the nude form as quite separate from societal attitudes."

"Toward women," the viscount observed.

Leighton's expression was unreadable. "I wouldn't venture a guess on Alex's cultural politics."

"You're wasting your time, Sammy." Eddie waved his champagne glass toward the door through which Alex had exited. "She's not going to give you a tumble."

The viscount's dark brows rose faintly. "We'll see."

"That tone of voice always makes me nervous. The last time you said 'We'll see,' I ended up in a Turkish jail from which we were freed only because the British ambassador was a personal friend of the sultan's minister. And why you thought you could get through the phalanx of guards surrounding that harem, I'll never know."

"We almost made it."

"Almost nearly cost us our lives."

"You worry too much."

"While you don't worry at all."

"Of course I do. I was worried Lady Duffin's husband was going to break down the door before we were finished last week."

"So that's why Charles won't speak to you anymore."

The viscount shrugged. "He never did anyway."

Alexandra didn't have another appointment. Rather, she'd felt a desperate need to escape.

Notwithstanding her disapproval of men like Ranelagh, something alarming had happened a few moments ago, and try as she might to disparage the viscount's blatant sexual magnetism and his infamous use of it, she'd found herself not only drawn to him but, more terrifying, tempted. She drew in a calming breath, her emotions in chaos, her nerves on edge, an unusual agitation gripping her senses. Not only were all the stories of the viscount's allure true, the man was fully aware of the effect he had on women-damn him.

Intent on repressing her alarming reaction to their meeting, she reminded herself he was just another man and she wasn't a missish young girl whose head could be turned by a seductive glance and a charming smile. Nor was she some tart who could be bluntly propositioned as though he had but to nod his handsome head and she would fall into his bed.

In spite of the fact that seductive power was his hallmark and he was notorious for inspiring carnal longing in legions of women, she didn't intend to be added to his harem of eager and willing females. She'd spent too many years struggling against conformity, trying to find a role outside the societal standards for women of her class, and she relished her hard-won independence. Surely, she was strong enough to resist a libertine no matter how sinfully handsome or celebrated his sexual expertise.

Regardless of the fact that she'd been celibate since a recent disastrous affair with a man who didn't understand the meaning of no.

Reason, perhaps, for her current agitation.

But after Leon, she'd vowed to be more prudent in her choices.

And Ranelagh would be not only imprudent but-if his conduct at Leighton's was any evidence-impudent as well.

Inexhaustible in bed, however, if rumor were true, a devilish voice inside her head reminded her.

She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, as though she might restrain her carnal urges with so slight a gesture. Impossible, of course, with the stark images of Ranelagh lodged in her brain-his tantalizing smile, the boldness of his glance, the overwhelming sense of power he evoked. He was tall, dark, breath-takingly handsome at close range, and all honed muscle and brute strength beneath the gloss of his fine tailoring. She'd never met such a man before, his presence one of sheer physical force. The purity of his finely modeled features only enhanced his image of physical perfection, while his brooding black eyes and sensual mouth suggested impassioned sensibilities beneath the consummate male animal.

And his hands were so very large-which meant-