"Tomorrow, then?" he said with an equivalent dispassion.
"I'm afraid I'm busy tomorrow as well."
"You're not actually afraid, are you?" Was it possible beneath the cool gaze?
She shook her head, and a fortune in diamonds swung from her earlobes. "I'm simply not interested."
"Could I convince you somehow"-his voice dropped a half octave-"to become interested?"
In the deepening shadows, the unadorned grace of his face and form almost took her breath away-her artist's eye in awe of such stark, sensual beauty. She'd been trying, with difficulty, not to take notice of his splendid looks and, more particularly, of his sizable erection lifting the soft wool of his trousers. "I believe we've had this conversation before, and my feelings haven't changed." She kept her tone neutral with effort. His arousal was fascinatingly large.
"I could contrive to mend my ways."
A rush of heat spiked through her body at his wicked smile. "You don't mean it, my lord. We both know that."
But a faint equivocation in her voice quickened his senses. Did she mean no or not? Or how much did she mean it? His nostrils flared as though he might catch scent of the truth. Then a singularly familiar fragrance drifted into his nostrils, and his understanding was no longer in question. He recognized the redolent perfume of female arousal. Glancing downward, his gaze settled on the juncture of her thighs.
Her auburn curls melted into the soft sable fur, and she was getting wet for him.
"What if I really did mean it?" he said, heated and low, his gaze returning to hers. "What then?"
The lust in his eyes excited her, stirred and thrilled her, when she should despise a man who made love only for sport.
But he moved a step closer, leaned in, and whispered in a velvety tone, "We'll do whatever you want to do… you set the limits-you give the orders."
For a reckless moment, she wanted to clutch the heavy black silk of his hair, pull him close, and kiss him hard-in prelude to what he so temptingly offered. Clenching her fists against the rash impulse, she said instead, "I don't want to give orders."
"Better yet."
She shivered faintly at the implication.
"If I were to touch you… there"-he gestured languidly at her mons, and she found herself gauging the length of his long, large fingers-"I guarantee you'll change your mind."
"If you dare," she said tersely, feeling as though she were suffocating, "you'll never touch me again."
Her phrasing gave him pause, her "again" tantalizing-a myriad of possibilities instantly reverberating through his brain. "Tell me where or when or how"-his smile was carnal and lush-"or we could leave now and you could… show me."
A clamorous ringing crash shattered the heated ferment.
Sam didn't turn his head. "It doesn't matter," he breathed.
But Alex looked, and like a sluice of icy water rushing in, the world intruded. Larry was reaching down to pick up the fallen container and scattered brushes from the puddle of linseed oil spreading over the floor.
Leaping to her feet, Alex shoved past Sam before she lost her resolve and jumped from the dais.
He could have stopped her if he'd wished, but no one could accuse him of being gauche. And he understood with a libertine's expertise, it was only a matter of time before the skittish Miss Ionides yielded. Watching her stride away, Sam admired her beauty and nerve, not to mention the silken sway of her hips.
She was going to be one hot little piece, he thought pleasantly.
When she disappeared from sight, the studio was eerily silent.
Moving toward Alma-Tadema, Sam issued a well-mannered and self-possessed smile, as though he'd not just tried to seduce the artist's model. "Do you think Cassels might be talked into selling your painting to me?" he inquired, the cultivated world of the aristocracy in every smooth syllable.
Alma-Tadema shrugged. "Who knows?" Alex had escaped; he could be urbane as well.
Sam's mouth curved into a rueful smile. "You dropped those brushes on purpose, didn't you?"
The painter's expression was bland. "You'll have to do your courting on your own time, my lord."
"You're her champion, I presume." Sam's gaze narrowed as he approached the man. "Or are you more?"
"That would be for Alex to say."
"Your wife doesn't mind?"
"I'd say ask her, but you probably would. And I'm not obliged to suffer rudeness in my own home."
Sam sighed. "My apologies. Miss Ionides has put me out of countenance."
"You and a good many other men. You're not alone, if that's any consolation."
"It's not," Sam replied curtly.
Sir Lawrence smiled for the first time. "My condolences."
"Amusing, I'm sure." Sam bowed stiffly. "I'll bid you good night. My compliments on your talent. The painting of Miss Ionides is superb."
And he intended to own it just as soon as he found Cassels.
But much later, as the first light of day fringed the horizon, Lord Ranelagh walked away from Hattie Martin's luxurious brothel pervaded with a deep sense of dissatisfaction. What had previously passed for pleasure seemed wearisome now, a jaded sense of sameness enervated his soul, and sullen and moody, even the glorious sunrise failed to please him.
Walking home through the quiet streets, he was plagued with thoughts of the bewitching Miss Ionides, wondering where she'd slept or, like he, not slept-which rankling thought further lowered his spirits. And by the time he'd reached his town house, he'd run through a mental list of any number of men who might be her lovers, the image of her delectable body in the arms of another man inexplicably disagreeable.
It shouldn't be. He should be immune to the nature of her liaisons. He hadn't even met the damned woman a day ago and there was no earthly reason he should care who the hell she slept with.
He snapped at the hall porter when he entered his house, immediately apologized at the man's stricken expression, and after making some banal excuse, pressed ten guineas into the servant's hand. When he walked into his bedroom a few moments later, he waved a restraining hand at his valet, who came awake with a start and jumped to his feet. "Go back to sleep, Rory. I can undress myself. In fact, take the day off. I won't be needing you."
His young manservant immediately evinced concern. The viscount was accustomed to being waited on, his family's fortune having insulated him from the mundane details of living.
Recognizing his valet's hesitation, Sam said, "I'll be fine."
"You're sure?"
"Why not take Molly for a walk in the park," the viscount suggested, knowing of Rory's affection for the downstairs maid. "She may have the day off as well."
"Thank you, sir!"
"Go, now." Sam waved him off. "All I want to do is sleep."
In a more perfect world he might have slept, considering he'd been up for twenty-four hours; but Miss Ionides was putting period to the perfection of his world and to his peace of mind. He tossed and turned for more than an hour before throwing aside the blanket and stalking over to a small table holding two decanters of liquor. Pouring himself a considerable amount of cognac, he dropped into an upholstered chair and, sliding into a sprawl, contemplated the injustice of Miss Ionides being so damned desirable.
Half a bottle of cognac later, he'd decided he'd simply have to fuck her and put an end to his lust and her damnable allure. He further decided his powerful craving was just the result of his not having what he wanted-her. And once he made love to the delectable Miss Ionides, that craving would be assuaged. Familiarity breeding contempt, as they say, had been the common pattern of his sexual amusements. In his experience, one woman was very much like another once the game was over.
But this particular game of seduction was just beginning, and glancing out the window, he took note of the position of the sun in the sky. The races would be starting soon at Ascot, the entire week scheduled with prestigious races, the Season bringing all of society to the track.