Seduction in Mind Read online

  His well-bred kindness further commended him, when she was already more enchanted than she wished. She tried to repress the affection he inspired. “I first saw Turner’s work when I was very young,” she told him, forcing herself to speak with composure. “And I thought I was looking at dream landscapes.”

  “These river views especially remind me of dreams.” Sam carefully lifted two sheets from a drawer and set them on the broad cabinet top. “He’s been a favorite of mine for years. I bought my first Turner when I was fifteen.” He glanced at her empty glass. “Would you like more cognac?”

  “I shouldn’t.” She smiled. “But I will if you will.”

  Taking his glass from her, he grinned. “If you insist.”

  “I don’t usually drink so much, but it’s so peaceful here and the company is superb,” she said with a smile, “and I seem to be in the mood for lethargy.”

  He looked up from pouring. “Are you going to fall asleep on me?”

  “On you?”

  “Now, there’s a concept. Maybe we can look at the rest of the watercolors later.” Setting down the bottle and glass, he pushed the cabinet drawer shut.

  “If you don’t think me too presumptuous.”

  “Not at all. I’m capable of saying no if I wish.”

  “Have you ever?”

  “Do you think I haven’t?”

  “Answer the question.” She was curious.

  “What happens if I do?”

  She tipped her head faintly. “You get a reward.”

  “Ah, then … yes, I have,” he replied smoothly.

  “Liar.”

  He looked amused. “I was just ordered to answer. You didn’t say you wanted the truth.”

  “And we both know the truth,” she declared. “Which makes this all very bizarre—my being here.” She was resting her arms on the high cabinet top in a comfortable lounging pose, the wide sleeves of her gown falling away at her elbows.

  “Why? It’s a perfectly benign evening.” But he knew what she meant by bizarre, because not only had he never had anyone to his Strand apartment, he hadn’t dined alone with a lady since the early days of his ill-fated marriage. And she looked as though she belonged in his study in her softly draped gown designed in the Pre-Raphaelite mode—an Elizabethan lady to match his apartment.

  “But I’ve never given in to impulse before—in terms of sex.”

  “Why not?” The pattern of his sexual life had been essentially based on impulse.

  She lifted one shoulder slightly in the merest of deprecating shrugs. “Circumstances perhaps, or cultural pressures for women. Who knows?”

  “So young Harry wasn’t an impulse?”

  “God, no. He was amazingly persistent.”

  Harry would bear watching, he noted silently, struck by a curious sense of possession. “Well, then this is a change for us both. You see, I’ve never actually had a lady in for dinner.”

  She smiled, warmed by his admission. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Profoundly. My compliments on the menu. The food was superb even if it wasn’t steak.”

  “Didn’t I tell you I’d expand your experience?”

  “Speaking of experiences—let me show you my rooftop garden. And the stars. The lights of the City are less evident in this section of London. You may lie on me there.”

  “You enjoy this garden alone?”

  “Always. It’s peaceful and my life is too often—”

  “Dissolute?” she offered.

  “Filled with people, certainly,” he remarked calmly, immune to censure, playful or not. “And not always those I wish to see.”

  “My studio offers me the same kind of solitude on occasion.”

  “When you can keep your suitors at bay.”

  “I suppose. We both can use the hermitage of your rooftop, it seems.”

  She hadn’t disagreed with his assessment of her admirers, he noted with chagrin. But he knew better than to take issue with it, considering the manner of his own entertainments. “Then, I’ll take the cognac bottle, you take our glasses, and follow me.”

  They were almost to the study door, when a servant knocked. After Sam bid him enter, his butler stood stiffly on the threshold. “There is a person here, my lord, with a note for the lady.”

  “For me?” Alex said, the words half suffocated in her throat.

  “What kind of a person?” Sam inquired, the disdain in his butler’s voice obvious. Who the hell knew of his apartment, he wondered, and, more particularly, of his guest?

  “A rather rough sort of fellow, sir, with a decided limp. Should I have the footmen throw him out?”

  “A limp?” Alex breathed, setting the glasses down before she dropped them.

  Sam turned to her, taking in her pallor with a small frown. “You needn’t see anyone,” he said crisply. “Barclay, bring the lady a chair.”

  “I’m fine, really, there’s no need …” Alex drew herself up straighter, as though readying herself for a confrontation. “Show the man in, Barclay. I believe my father sent him.”

  The viscount choked back his exclamation and nodded to his servant. Brief moments later, a small, wiry man of indeterminate age walked into the room with an awkward gait. He was dressed like a seaman in wide-legged trousers and a striped jersey, and the knit cap pulled low on his forehead hid the color of his hair.

  “Good evenin’, Miss Alex.” The man saluted briefly, his deference plain. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but your pa sent me.”

  “I understand, Loucas. You have a note, I believe.” There was a possibility some emergency existed, but she rather doubted it. Her father’s factotum didn’t look agitated in the least.

  “Yes, miss.” He fumbled in his trouser pocket before extracting a small folded sheet of paper and handing it to her.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured, opening the seal. She spread the sheet and quickly perused the few lines. A blush began at her throat and slowly moved upward until her face was suffused with pink. Her father had politely informed her of her mother’s visit to her studio, the reason for it, and her subsequent displeasure on not finding Alex there. Because he’d promised he’d make inquiries, he went on, he had to keep his word. He expressed his regret at intruding.

  “My apologies,” she said, turning to Sam, crumpling the note in her hand. “That will be all, Loucas, thank you.”

  “Yes, miss.” With a sharp glance in Sam’s direction, he left.

  The moment the door closed on their visitor, Sam tossed the cognac bottle toward a settee and asked coolly, “Have we been under surveillance today?”

  “No, but I’m absolutely mortified, and I don’t blame you in the least for being annoyed.” She grimaced. “It’s my mother.”

  “How did she find you?” There was no conciliation in his tone or in his gaze.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware, but my father is Greek consul in London and his merchant business, too, offers him, shall we say, a broad range of contacts in the City. At all levels of society,” she quietly added.

  “He has informers,” Sam said curtly.

  “I’m not sure he personally has any, but he has access to them.”

  “And he wished to find you.”

  “Actually, my mother did.” She shrugged. “She worries, and he must placate her, and if it’s any consolation, he apologized for his intrusion.”

  “Gratifying,” Sam conceded, his gaze dubious.

  “I do apologize most humbly.”

  Sam was silent, and her embarrassment deepened. She didn’t know what more she could say. That this had never happened before? That her mother considered him unacceptable company for her daughter? That her mother wished her to marry a Greek shipping merchant and have a dozen children?

  “Fuck.” The soft expletive was pronounced with a distinct scowl.

  This probably wasn’t the time for levity, Alex reflected, although it was tempting, and she suppressed the impulse to say here or on the rooftop? Instead, she said, “I�
�m sure you’d rather I leave now. I can find a hackney to take me home.”

  “Sit.” He pointed to a chair.

  His brusque tone stripped away any further thought of remorse, and she drew herself up to her full height. “I beg your pardon?”

  His gaze seemed to refocus, and his voice when he spoke held its familiar warmth. “Please sit, darling. And forgive my gruffness. I was just wondering if perhaps we should reply to your father’s note. Reassure him of your safety.”

  “Don’t joke, Sam”—her voice took on a nervous edge—“you don’t know my mother. She’ll be on your doorstep in no time.”

  “We could invite her in for tea,” he drawled, his good spirits returning as he realized he was dealing only with a domineering mother. That particular style of female was familiar to him.

  “No, we could not! We will most certainly not! We—I … neither of us wants to see my mother over tea or otherwise.” She could just imagine the scene. “My mother has very set notions of a woman’s role, none of which I conform to. She’s particularly offended that I’m her only child who hasn’t given her grandchildren, and she reminds me of that deficit several hundred times a year.”

  “We could work on that,” he teased.

  “She would prefer a legitimate grandchild,” Alex replied tartly, “and I doubt that was a proposal of marriage I just heard.”

  “And if it were?” Even as he recognized the flippancy of his question, the matter of her answer intrigued him.

  “I would refuse, of course, because I prefer a husband who understands what the word marriage means.”

  “Do I detect a modicum of censure?”

  “If modicum means oceans full and mountains high, you’d be close.”

  “And yet your mother disapproved of your marriages, when both men were clearly stable and reputable.”

  “How did you know?”

  He grinned. “A wild guess. And she disapproves of me, I expect, although, I admit, I’m in awe of the Ionides spy system. I met you just yesterday.”

  Alex grimaced. “Terrifying, isn’t it?”

  “It almost makes one consider locking the bedroom door and closing the draperies.”

  “I’d recommend it.”

  “So that leaves out the rooftop.”

  “Really, Sam, you needn’t be polite. Loucas’s appearance must have been unsettling.”

  For a man who’d performed sexually before spectators on occasion when the revels at Hattie’s turned lewd, a servant delivering a note hardly bore notice. Now that the explanation was clear. “Is it unsettling for you?”

  “Of course.”

  “How much?” And then he smiled and opened his arms and said very low, “Queen Elizabeth actually slept in my bed, and I was thinking you might like to try it out before you leave.”

  She didn’t reply immediately, but the pleasure Sam offered was no longer an unknown, and the tantalizing possibilities in staying overwhelmed prudent behavior. “I suppose,” she said, walking toward him, “lying in Queen Elizabeth’s bed would be in the nature of a history lesson—an edifying experience.”

  “I could guarantee the edifying part.” He ran his hands down her arms as she reached him. When their fingers touched and twined, he drew her close. “And I can’t let you go.”

  “Nor do I wish to leave … although—”

  “We’ll worry about that in the morning,” he whispered.

  “I warn you, I’m an early riser.”

  “I wasn’t planning on sleeping.”

  “Oh,” she said on a caught breath.

  He found himself charmed by the lovely Miss Ionides’s naïveté.

  Chapter 14

  His bedroom was small and plainly furnished with a tester bed, two chairs, a small table, and a bureau. The walls were covered in tapestries depicting the life of Ulysses, the bed hung with green cut-velvet in a design contemporary to the building. The fabric was new, as was the upholstery on the chairs. The only light was from two huge silver candelabra.

  “In the interests of privacy,” Sam said, walking over and pulling the draperies shut. “And I’m definitely interested in privacy,” he whispered a moment later when he returned to take her into his arms.

  “I’m not sure I can guarantee it,” Alex said, smiling.

  “Then we’ll lock the door.” He went to the door and turned the key in the lock, then tossed the key on the table. He approached her with a smile. “You’re mine now until I let you go.”

  “Or you’re mine,” she replied lightly.

  The idea of belonging to someone, even temporarily, struck him as odd; he’d been selfishly alone for so long. “I might be more than you can handle.” He gave her a roguish wink.

  She kicked off her silver kid slippers. “I think I’ll manage.”

  “Let me help you.”

  “Manage you?”

  “Undress.”

  “And then I’ll help you—undress. I never have, you know.” Her comment was spontaneous, part of the exuberance that filled her soul in this small, candlelit room where the Virgin Queen had once slept.

  “Then I’ll have to see that the occasion is memorable,” he replied, keeping his voice sportive with effort when he felt instead a jolt of inexplicable pleasure. “We’ll start with you.” Leaning close, he unclasped one of the large pearl ear drops she wore.

  She trembled at the delicacy of his touch, anticipation warming her senses. “I wanted to make love to you all evening,” she admitted.

  “While I didn’t know how much longer I could play the gentleman.” He unloosened the second earring and placed it with the first on the bureau top.

  “Please don’t any longer.”

  “It’s been almost three hours—I’m damned proud of myself.”

  “Three and a half, and I’m not interested in pride.” She was unbuckling the mother-of-pearl belt buckle at her waist, a note of haste in her voice.

  Recognizing the tone, he turned her around by her shoulders and quickly unhooked the back of her gown. As the belt and light summer garment fell to the carpet, she spun to him, threw her arms around his neck, and pressed into his body. “I think there’s something wrong with me,” she whispered. “I’m frantic to have you make love to me…. I’m never like this—never—frantic about anything, and I apologize. But if you don’t mind, maybe we could undress you afterward….”

  The message was loud and clear despite her whispered accents. He doubted there was a man alive who would have minded. “I’m more than willing,” he calmly said, scooping her up into his arms. Carrying her the few feet to the bed, he placed her on the green cut-velvet coverlet near the edge and quickly unfastening his trousers, moved between her legs. As he entered her without undressing, he was reminded of occasions at Hattie’s when hasty sex was convenient, although Miss Ionides didn’t precipitate the same kind of casual disregard. In fact … He brushed away the subsequent thought, not wanting to acknowledge the degree of affection she inspired.

  His attention was quickly engaged in far more pleasurable activities as the fascinating Miss Ionides wrapped her legs around his waist. She pulled his head down so she could eat at his mouth while he plunged deep inside her. Between her contented groans and sleek, wet cunt, he was hard pressed to think at all. She came, then he did, then they did. It was an orchestration of timing that could have been accomplished only by a man of his expertise, because there were only half-seconds to spare between her climax and his withdrawal.

  There was a brief period of time after that when they felt sated enough to finish their undressing. Hers required only the removal of her chemise, drawers, and stockings, which he did with dispatch. Her undressing of him was more convoluted, both in time and emotion. They both understood the rarity of the event.

  He stood beside the bed while she kneeled on the mattress and eased his coat off his shoulders and down his arms. When she began to fold it, he took it from her and tossed it aside impatiently.

  Forcing himself to stand still
while she unbuttoned his shirt, he found himself counting the seconds it took for each button to be freed and thought surely she must be a witch to make him feel eager as an adolescent once again. It was ninety seconds before his shirt followed his coat onto the carpet—eighty-nine seconds too long in his current frame of mind. When Alex reached for the single button that was keeping his trousers in place, he stopped her hand. “This is taking too long.” She was utterly naked kneeling beside him and much too close and much, much too voluptuous—like some fertility goddess made to be fucked by rampant cocks like his. He inhaled against the raging state of his arousal. “I’ll do the rest myself.”

  His trousers slid down his legs and his silk underwear followed in quick succession. When he took her in his arms, he said as a sop to his previously nonexistent conscience, “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I’m ravenous—I’m crazed—look … I’m shaking.” She lifted her hand the merest distance so he could see the tremor.

  His glance was quick, dismissive, his own sensibilities on an irrepressible rampage. He tumbled her backward on the bed, followed her down, slid between her outstretched thighs, and wondered if anyone was keeping count.

  “I’m sorry I’m so … demanding,” she whispered, arching up to meet his downthrust.

  “Don’t be. I’m in the mood to fuck myself to death,” he breathed, plunging into her silken cunt with an unquenchable frenzy.

  “How nice …”

  Her words were so damnably polite, his gaze swiveled downward, and he scrutinized her fleetingly.

  “I mean I’m grateful,” she purred, sliding her hands down his spine.

  His glance slipped away. Now, there’s a concept; she was grateful. He didn’t think the word applied to himself. He was wild for her, inflamed and impatient, but that all had to do with lust, not gratitude. Whatever she was feeling, though, matched the rhythm of his lower body to perfection, and she could call it what she liked.

  It was fucking at its very best.

  Later that night, he lay in bed, watching her brush the tangles out of her hair. His teak-handled brush looked large in her hand, oversized, as did the bureau she stood before on tiptoe so she could see herself in the mirror propped on top. Her slender form seemed to glow in the candlelight, her skin almost luminous, and he was reminded of a Titian nude, where female flesh always seemed lit from within. Such recall brought with it the memory of her posing for Alma-Tadema and in its wake a flood of disconcerting emotion.