"You've always thought too small, Mahmud."
His gaze turned sullen. "While you've lain with anyone who has ten piastres to offer you."
"And look what we have, thanks to me. Darling, consider"-her tone turned coaxing-"if I can make Ranelagh pay, you'll have all the desert ponies you wish."
"I want only the ones Hasim stole from us."
"And you'll have them. I promise."
"When?" Moody and sullen, he gazed at her, his handsome face a male duplicate of hers, brother and sister a stunning matched pair who had advantageously used their beauty for profit.
"Soon. The barrister said we can file a breach of promise suit, and there's always Ranelagh's Egyptian collection. Think what we could get for it on the art market." She moved around the end of the bed and sat down beside him. "I missed you today," she whispered, leaning over to kiss his sulky mouth.
"I waited for you all afternoon." His fingers tangled in her hair and he pulled her closer.
"I'm here now…" she murmured, stroking his rising erection.
Chapter Thirteen
"Have you ever thought about having children?" Alex asked.
Sam and Alex were looking at a series of watercolors painted by Ingres during his Italian sojourn. They had paused in front of one of small children at play in the shade of an olive tree, the dappled sun illuminating their plump, rosy faces. After a superb dinner and several glasses of wine, Alex found their cherubic looks even more endearing.
Under normal circumstances the viscount would have been alarmed at such a question, but he felt an odd tenderness toward the speaker and he only said, "No, have you?"
"I would have liked children," Alex replied, "but…" Reluctant to discuss the idiosyncracies of her marriages, her voice trailed off.
"It didn't work out."
"No."
"Penelope said she was too young to have children." Even as he spoke, he questioned his sanity. He'd never discussed his wife with anyone.
Alex smiled faintly. "St. Albans said he was too old."
"And Coutts?"
The color rose on her cheeks. "It was a personal matter."
"Ah." He took her hand. "You haven't seen my Turner watercolors yet," he said, mannerly and urbane. From the girls at Hattie's he'd heard Coutts was impotent. "They're so fragile, I have them stored in drawers." He drew her toward a large cabinet in the center of his study.
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.