Sofie smiled. “Isn’t that the point of having your portrait painted?”
Rosalind turned to Isolde. “Bella’s paying Sofie a fortune or she wouldn’t do it.”
“I’m going to spend my windfall in Paris enjoying the pleasures of wine, men, and song. Or just wine and men,” Sofie added with a grin. “The music halls and opera will have to do without me.”
“While we two old married women will live vicariously through your pleasures,” Isolde teased.
Sofie snorted. “Married to your husbands you have pleasures enough I don’t doubt.”
Rosalind and Isolde exchanged smiles, both inexpressibly content in their marriages.
“So how did Bella annoy you today?” Rosalind asked, up-to-date with all of Sofie’s complaints about her new client.
“She was no more annoying than usual. But she had someone keeping her company during her sitting whom I’d not seen before.”
“A man no doubt,” Rosalind said. She recognized a certain excitement in Sofie’s tone.
“A very beautiful man.”
Rosalind came to her feet. “Maud, if you’ll excuse us for a moment. I think we ladies will have tea in the gallery.”
“I don’t want tea,” Sofia said as they exited Rosalind’s office.
“Nor do I. Come, we’ll sit over there.” Rosalind indicated a sofa and chairs in a corner of the gallery. “Now, tell us about this lovely man. He’s obviously piqued your interest.”
“I suppose he may have just a little,” Sofie said, dropping into a jonquil yellow chintz-covered chair that complimented her simple gown of green sprigged muslin.
Having been the recipient of Sofia’s lascivious accounts of her lovers over the years, Rosalind smiled faintly as she sat beside her in a matching chair. “Just a little? You’re practically twitching, darling. He must be very special.”
“I don’t twitch.”
“Exactly. I’m intrigued.” She glanced at Isolde, who was curled up on an equally flamboyant sofa upholstered in a brilliant tomato red Liberty of London fabric. “We’re intrigued, aren’t we?”
Isolde grinned. “Indeed. Give us every little detail of this paragon down to his shoe size.”
“Or other sizeable assets of which you no doubt took notice,” Rosalind sportively added.
“I did. He’s sizeable in every vividly masculine way. Not that it’ll do me any good.” Sofia sighed. “I’ll never see him again.”
“I doubt that very much,” Isolde said. “Men always pursue you.”
“Not him. He was only civil.”
Rosalind frowned. “Does this apparently undiscerning man have a name?”
“His name is James Blackwood, a baron it seems. He was at the countess’s portrait sitting—clearly at her request. From all appearances, she didn’t want to let him out of her sight.” Sofie’s brows rose. “The scent of sex was pungent in the air. And he’s leaving for Scotland at five.”
“Should I know him?”
“I was hoping you might since you’re from Yorkshire.”
After Sofia explained all she knew, Rosalind pursed her lips. “I know the border families, but I’m not familiar with the Highlands beyond the most prominent names. Let me call Fitz. He might know something of this baron.”
After several calls, Rosalind had tracked her husband from their home to his club to his architect. Setting down the phone, she turned to Sofia with a smile. “Fitz is on his way here.”
“He’ll think me juvenile.”
“Not in the least. We can be curious, can’t we? Don’t men forever talk about women in and out of society?”
“I don’t.”
“Nor do I.”
The deep, amused voices came from the doorway.
“Then you’re the exception,” Rosalind said, turning to her husband who was advancing into the room, followed by Oz carrying his baby daughter in the curve of his arm. “For which I thank you,” she added with a smile.
“You’d better. I’m a constant target of ridicule for my indifference to other women. Hello, Sofia. How went your sitting with Bella?”
“How did you know?”
“We ran into Lily on the street. She was delighted to have obstructed Bella’s little tête-à-tête with Blackwood. We had to listen at some length to her crowing. You must have been amused.”
While Sofia debated how best to reply, amusement having not been her reaction to James Blackwood, Rosalind stepped in. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been calling around to find you specifically because of Lily’s little contretemps with Bella. We’d like some information on James Blackwood.”
“We?”
“Me,” Sofia said with a rueful grimace. “Don’t laugh. He’s quite beautiful. I was thinking about painting him.”
Oz grinned. “With or without clothes?” Taking a seat beside Isolde, he settled the baby in his lap, untied her bonnet, and tossed it aside.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Sofie said, smiling back at the young man who prior to his marriage had cut a wide swath through the boudoirs of London. “I’m intrigued, though. He’s obviously the countess’s lover.”
“They’re old friends.” Fitz drew up a chair beside his wife. “What do you want to know?”
“Why haven’t I seen him before? Is he a recluse?”
“No, but he lives abroad. He’s attaché to Prince Ernst, as were his forebears. The family estate is in Dalmia—”
“Sofia thought it was in the Highlands,” his wife interposed.
“There’s land there as well. He holds two baronies. He must have only recently arrived in town.”
“I don’t know,” Sofie said. “But he’s leaving this afternoon and taking a train north.”
“That’s why Lily was so pleased to have interrupted Bella’s plans. Their little catfight must have been irritating for Jamie.”
“You speak from experience?” his wife playfully queried. The duke had been a much-pursued bachelor until his midthirties.
“Actually he seemed unperturbed,” Sofia offered, knowing Fitz would prefer not answering.
Fitz shot her a grateful look. “Come to think of it, I never have seen him rise to anger.”
“And yet he’s a soldier.”
“Perhaps that’s why he controls his emotions. I expect he’s seen his share of nastiness in that volatile region. Someone is forever assassinating or attempting to assassinate someone.”
“Then he doesn’t live in Scotland at all?”
Fitz shook his head. “When the clans regained their lost lands, his family stayed in Dalmia. What else do you want to know? Or should I say,” he added with a grin, “why do you want to know, my dear Sofia? I doubt it’s about a painting.”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
“You’re blushing.” He was surprised; Sofia was a sophisticated woman who treated men with nonchalance.
“I admit something about him beyond his obvious beauty engaged my interest. He exudes a quiet power and authority, although perhaps that intrinsic air of command comes from his military background. In any case, I found him fascinating.” She smiled at Rosalind. “Like one of your romantic heroes.” Rosalind had written erotic romances before her marriage to Fitz.
The duchess grinned. “Perhaps you should think about a holiday in Scotland.”
Sofia laughed. “I could appear on his doorstep and ask for directions.”
“If you could find his doorstep,” Fitz drolly noted. “His estate in the Highlands is beyond the rail lines and normal roads. The last few miles require a trek on horseback.”
“It sounds as though you’re going to need a good tracker,” Oz playfully observed. “May I offer my services?”
“Certainly not,” Sofia said with a moue. “I’m intrigued, not deranged. I shan’t be stalking the elusive baron.”
“Nor would you be successful even if you did,” Fitz remarked. “Jamie’s an excellent tracker himself, a worldclass shot, not to mention Prince Ernst’s savior from assassin
ation on several occasions. You wouldn’t get within a five-mile radius of his house without being seen.”
“A true professional,” Sofia murmured, picturing the splendid Jamie as some warrior of old defending his lands—dressed in a kilt or perhaps in the chain mail of the Balkan mountain tribes. “Obviously the man’s beyond range,” she added with a small sigh, “in every sense of the word.”
“Perhaps not,” Fitz rebutted. “Consider, he has to pass through London on his way back to Dalmia. Something can be arranged. He’s single, by the way; did I mention that?”
“Hardly a requirement for amorous amusements in the ton,” Sofia returned with a cynical lift of her brows.
“True. But he prefers his bachelor state. Or so he’s told me on more than one occasion.”
“As if,” Isolde waggishly noted, “any of you men are interested in relinquishing your bachelor state until such a time—”
“As we are.” Leaning over, Oz kissed his wife’s cheek. “For which good fortune I constantly thank the gods,” he added with an affectionate smile. “Now then, I say we put in a good word for you, Sofia. Fitz and I both know Jamie; I became friends with him a few years ago in Trieste.”
“Sharing common amusements no doubt,” Isolde quipped, gently patting her husband’s hand, careful not to wake the baby, who’d fallen asleep on her papa’s lap.
Oz grinned. “Since it was long before I met you, I’m allowed to say yes. I was invited to join his yachting party, and we spent a fortnight sailing the Adriatic. He has a home on one of the islands that was built by an ancestor enamored with Diocletian’s palace at Split.”
Fitz glanced at Oz. “The pool is unusual.”
“Very. Another ancestor apparently had a taste for Byzantine excess.”
“Gold mosaics,” Fitz interposed with a smile for the women. Along with murals depicting explicit sexual acts.
“A home on the Adriatic? He sounds even more enticing now,” Sofia grumbled. “And I don’t have a chance in hell of seeing him again.”
“Anything is possible, darling,” Oz drawled with the certainty of an extremely wealthy man. “You need but ask.”
Sofia laughed. “You would dragoon him into my bed?”
“Since he’s met you, I doubt dragooning is required,” Oz pleasantly replied. “I was thinking more along the lines of a polite invitation to stop by for drinks on his way back to Dalmia.”
“Please, spare me the embarrassment. I mean it,” she firmly said to the mischievous gleam in Oz’s eyes. “Now, I’m quite finished with this entire conversation.”
“In that case, Dex is still in the running,” Fitz roguishly offered. “He was hoping for an introduction.”
Sofia’s eyes widened. “Dexter Champion?” The earl was a champion not only in name but in sport as well: his prowess on the polo field had won England the world title three years running.
Fitz winked. “He’s been pining from afar.” “Apparently not for long. Didn’t he just leave his wife?”
“It was a bad marriage from the start,” Fitz dismissively noted. “His mother had a hand in it.”
“And he wasn’t capable of saying no?”
“He did for some time, and then Helene claimed she was pregnant and he stopped protesting.”
“She wasn’t?”
“No, just devious.”
“They don’t have children, do they?”
“Not his at least. Rumor has it her recent holiday in Italy resulted in the child she brought home and has since referred to as her niece. So, would you like to come to dinner and make his acquaintance?” Fitz glanced at Rosalind. “If that’s all right with you, dear?”
“It’s up to Sofia. Dex is a lovely man, though.” Rosalind turned to her friend. “You should think about meeting him.”
Sofia hesitated briefly before saying, “Maybe I will. I’m not likely to be painting Jamie Blackwood in this lifetime.”
Oz chuckled. “I haven’t heard that euphemism used before. Painting, you say.”
She sent him a lowering look. “Very amusing.” “You could paint Dex.” Oz grinned. “As runner-up.”
“Not likely. Lord Wharton may be handsome, but he has none of the captivating intangibles of Blackwood.”
“You could paint Jamie from memory,” Rosalind suggested.
Sofia’s eyelids lowered slightly. “Now why would I want to do that?”
CHAPTER 4
WHILE THE TWO couples and Sofia were discussing Jamie Blackwood, several blocks away, Countess Minton and the subject of that conversation were engaged in a hot, sweaty, vigorous farewell. Bella was demanding in bed, and considering this tryst would be his last for a fortnight, Jamie was willing to oblige her.
He planned on spending a celibate holiday at his hunting lodge. His preference for solitude was well-known by his troopers and the small staff who managed his estate. Scotland had always been his sanctuary—from excess on occasion, more so in the past than now, although, no question, Bella was definitely putting him through his paces. In recent years, Blackwood Glen also served as a hermitage from the corruption of the world and more particularly from Ernst’s Machiavellian political machinations that might kill them both in the end.
Revolutionary fervor was spreading like wildfire in the Habsburg Empire, the price of power traded openly. And Ernst was deep in the game. Magyars, Serbs, Croats, Slovaks, Czechs, Bohemians, Poles, Ruthenes, Germans—each with unique national interests and diverse loyalties—were maneuvering for advantage. Some were lunatics, all were dangerous, and while Prince Ernst thought he was skilled in this dirty business, his ideas of suave diplomacy weren’t always masterful.
When Franz Joseph had been invited to ascend the throne forty-six years ago by a consortium of powerful magnates who’d deposed his uncle, the eighteen-year-old archduke had recognized how precarious his crown was. Mindful of the naked tyranny that had brought him to the throne, he viewed with suspicion any assault, however minor, on his prerogatives. He nurtured the goodwill of the military as a bulwark against sedition, surrounded himself with sycophants and biddable bureaucrats, and promoted the fiction that he ruled by the grace of God. The truth was rather less romantic than the ideal of a God-given authority. It was the ubiquitous presence of his secret police that kept his nobles in line and preserved him from the mob.
“Stop, stop, stop! You can’t do that!”
Recalled to reality by the sharp cry, Jamie instantly curtailed the forceful thrust of his hips, automatically said, “Forgive me,” and only then glanced down to discover the origin of the complaint. Ah—Bella, apparently she did have limits. “Sorry, darling,” he gently added as he untwined her legs from around his neck and withdrew from her body. “Did I do damage?” Inhaling deeply to bring his breathing under control, he dropped into a sprawl beside her, slowly exhaled, and schooled his expression to one of contrition.
“You might have,” Bella pettishly said, turning to him with a frown. “I’m not a bloody contortionist.”
Sometimes you are. “My mistake,” he said instead, offering her a conciliatory smile. “Tell me what I must do to make amends.” Selfishly, he meant it. He’d been damned near to climax once again, his cock was still rock hard, and his train didn’t leave for another hour. He was quite willing to pay whatever penance was required. “I’m completely at your disposal, my sweet,” he murmured.
“Umm,” she said with a little pout, debating whether to tell him he must stay as the price of atonement.
He smiled faintly. “Anything within reason, puss.” He glanced at the clock. “You have forty minutes to order me about.”
She softly exhaled, recognizing her momentary lapse, recognizing as well why Jamie had discerned her thoughts. Women always wanted him to stay. “Very well, kiss me,” she said with the merest touch of imperiousness to soothe her ego. “Nicely.”
“Where?”
His grin was sweetly boyish, damn him; she couldn’t help but smile in return. “Someplace I’ll like, you
incorrigible rogue.”
Coming up on one elbow, he leaned over and kissed her softly on her pouty mouth. “How’s that?”
She gave a little shrug. “Lovely, if we were thirteen.”
“Ah—you have something more carnal in mind.” His gaze was angelic as a choirboy’s. “Here for instance?” He slid his middle finger delicately up her sleek cleft. “Would you like a kiss here?”
It took her a moment to answer, for he’d gently invaded her vagina, slipping two slender fingers deep inside her slick passage, touching a particularly sensitive spot with exquisite delicacy. When she found the breath to speak, she whispered, “Do you really have to go?” Every frenzied sexual receptor, every overindulged nerve ending, every pulsating bit of flesh was loathe to relinquish his virtuoso talents.
“Not just yet,” he whispered back, and moments later when she was begging for more, for him, for his glorious cock inside her, he accommodated her frantic desire in a thoroughly conventional fashion, choosing the missionary position as most respectful of her comfort.
An orgasm was an orgasm after all. Several of which he afforded her in rapid succession, himself as well with less frequency, until time and his train schedule intervened.
With a light kiss, he slipped from the bed and quickly dressed under her sulky regard. Apologizing profusely, a custom of long standing on taking his leave, he moved toward the door, and in answer to her sullen query, promised to visit again soon. “Provided the empire doesn’t explode or some demented revolutionary doesn’t decide I’m the cause of his oppression. In which case, send flowers to my funeral.”
Then he blew her a kiss, opened the door, and escaped. He immediately broke into a run, traversing the long upstairs corridor in seconds. Reaching the stairs, he descended them in flying leaps and exited Minton House as though the demons of hell were on his heels. Dashing into the street, he brought traffic to a halt at some risk to his life and found a hackney cab to take him to Euston Station. “Get me there by five and I’ll give you fifty quid,” he called out and leaped inside.
After several near-death experiences, the cab reached the station, and Jamie jumped out before the vehicle came to a stop. Tossing the folded banknote into the driver’s outstretched hand, Jamie sprinted through the crowded station to the platform from which the London and North Western Railway departed. Gasping for air, he saw the caboose nearing the end of the platform and, racing headlong after it, managed to leap aboard. A fellow passenger out enjoying his cigar had kindly held open the back gate.
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