Although, that’s not what Mrs. Beecham had meant.
And that’s not what this was about.
Even with pleasure and practicality in the balance, in the cold light of day reaching a decision wasn’t difficult. “Thank you for the invitation, but no.” She couldn’t afford to be seen with a man of his lascivious reputation. She couldn’t afford the scandal. A widow with a small business wasn’t allowed a single misstep. The Turner exhibit notwithstanding, of course.
“Then I’ll have my chef come over and cook for us.” Fitz suddenly recalled her austere kitchen. “Or why don’t I have dinner brought over instead? ”
“Why don’t I end this conversation,” Rosalind said, determined not to be seduced by a man who regarded sex as a form of amusement and herself as a temporary diversion. Someone who would likely forget her name in a fortnight. “I’m too sore in any event-even more so than last night,” she lied, intent on discouraging him. She gave him a lowering look. “As a matter of fact”-she picked up the small jar from the counter-“your doctor left me some salve for my affliction. So don’t bother yourself tonight. I’m hors de combat.”
He smiled faintly. “I was just suggesting dinner.”
“As I recall, you said something about champagne last night and didn’t mean it for a second.”
“I certainly did.” His tone was bland; censorious women he’d dealt with before. “Can I help it if you changed your mind? ”
“I’d appreciate it if you did help even if I change my mind,” she perversely said.
He grinned at recall of her insatiable appetite for sex. “So I’m supposed to be the sensible one.”
“I suppose that’s asking too much of a rake,” she retorted. “Of course it is,” she said, answering her own question. “So I shall be the sensible one tonight. Kindly close the door when you leave.”
“Five hundred pounds says I won’t make the first advance.”
“I’m not betting with you. For one thing, I don’t have five hundred.”
“I’m just saying I can abstain if you can.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Then take the bet. You’ll be richer for it.”
“I’m not betting with you. You’re totally unscrupulous.”
He was more than willing to take the blame for their mutual passions if it would serve his cause. “You’re right, forgive me. I’ll turn over a new leaf, I promise. I’ll be virtue itself.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you doing this? ”
He would have liked to think it was for sex, but it didn’t look as though sex was on the menu and yet he was still interested. “God knows,” he honestly replied. Then he smiled. “Perhaps it’s the challenge.”
“Here’s a challenge for you.” Her voice was cool. Everything was a game with Fitz. Curiously, she’d been hoping for an answer based on earnest feelings. Which only proved that she wasn’t cut out for the fast life. “Go without something you want for a change.”
“Something being you.”
“Yes, me in all my fascinating guises,” she lightly asserted, taking pleasure in Fitz’s mutinous expression. “Consider me the one who got away.”
“What if you didn’t get away?” A gentle query despite his moody gaze.
“But I already have. I’ll be quite alone tonight, although I’m sure you won’t lack for female companionship.”
A predatory gleam came into his eyes. “What if I already found the female I want? ”
“If that was directed at me, I doubt your suit would be persuasive,” Rosalind said, overconfident and naive about men who considered themselves exempt from ordinary rules of conduct.
“Surely you could use five hundred pounds.” A man’s argument, blunt and to the point.
“Of course I could, but unlike the other ladies you dally with, I’m not for sale,” she smugly noted.
He was motionless save for a slight arch to his brows. “Everyone’s for sale.”
“Really? You think so? ”
“I know so. The price just varies.”
“You’re a cold bastard.” But gorgeous in so many ways, her less righteous persona unhelpfully pointed out.
“And you’re one hot little piece,” he drawled.
Her smile was dazzling, cheeky, flaunting in its presumption. “But unfortunately not available to a rogue like you.”
“You didn’t seem to mind a rogue’s touch last night or the night before,” he smoothly noted.
“Perhaps I’ve had my fill, no pun intended,” she archly replied. “You’ll find someone else to warm your bed, I’m sure.”
She shouldn’t have continued to provoke him.
Those who knew him better wouldn’t have been so rash.
In a few quick strides, he circled the end of the counter, pushed her against the wall, pinioned her with his body, and bending his head so their eyes were level, said taut and low, “Don’t fuck with me.”
“Unhand me this instant,” she hissed. “Someone might come in.”
“I’ll lock the door.”
As he turned, Rosalind looked past him and froze. “Oh, God help me, Lady Harcourt’s about to come in!”
Fitz glanced at the door and swore.
“Do you know her?” Rosalind breathed, her panicked gaze on the entrance.
“Of course.”
“Hide, hide, please-get out of sight… her hand’s on the door latch!” She could visualize her entire world disappearing beneath a wave of scandal if Lady Harcourt saw them together. She read sermons for amusement and railed against the promiscuity of society.
Responding to her terror, Fitz dropped to the floor. “Get rid of her,” he hissed, sitting against the high counter facing her, his legs on either side of her feet, his head conveniently at the juncture of her thighs.
“And if I don’t? ” She took orders poorly.
“Then maybe I’ll come up from under your skirts and wish dear old Adelaide a pleasant afternoon,” he threatened, flicking the hem of her skirt in warning.
She shot him a wrathful look. “Monster.”
His smile was impudent. “Sorceress.”
“Good afternoon, Lady Harcourt,” Rosalind sang out in a voice slightly breathless at the last for Fitz had lifted her skirt, slid his hand between her thighs, and easing it between the divided legs of her drawers, rested his fingertips ever so lightly on her cleft.
“Good afternoon, my dear.” The elderly woman closed her parasol and set it by the door. “I do hope you have some new sermons from Cardinal Newman.”
“Indeed, Lady Harcourt. They’re on their usual shelf.” Unable to move with her ankle securely in Fitz’s grasp, Rosalind prayed Lady Harcourt didn’t ask for help.
“Lock the door when she leaves,” Fitz whispered.
“I will not.”
“Consider, darling, you might prefer not fucking with spectators looking on.” He was gently caressing her pouty sex, delicately inspecting the extent of the tenderness she’d alluded to, deftly arousing her passions.
“Fitz, don’t,” she breathed. “Please… don’t.” But she swallowed a gasp for he’d slid the tip of his finger inside her the merest fraction and made contact with the bud of her clitoris. Every carnal nerve in her body violently swooned in response and instantly quivered for more.
“There now, you’re getting nice and wet,” he murmured, his voice softly approving, as if she’d accomplished something praiseworthy. Her clitoris was swelling, his fingers were being drenched, her vagina was pulsing, and her protests notwithstanding, she was definitely receptive.
“Stop, Fitz”-Rosalind slapped his head-“not now. She might see.”
If the lovely Mrs. St. Vincent hadn’t been squirming and rocking against the deft pressure of his fingers, he might have taken her protests to heart. Glancing up, he whispered, “Hush, darling. You don’t want Adelaide to hear you. By the way, you have the most welcoming little quim. I’m getting hard just thinking about trying to get inside.”