“I promise to do better than interesting.” His voice was exquisitely soft.
“That will be for me to decide,” she said lightly.
“If we weren’t almost to my race box, I’d show you right now and you could let me know.”
She shook her head. “I prefer my studio.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What if I insist?”
His smile was pure seduction. “Insist away.”
“Because I’ll capitulate to your allure in the end.”
“Because we’re almost to Fair Grange, and I’ll make love to you now instead of an hour from now.”
“How convincing you can be.” She enjoyed the game, noting how astonishingly beautiful he was at close range.
“You look like a practical woman.”
“Or one in heat.”
He grinned. “I’m on my best behavior, Miss Ionides. I hope you appreciate it.”
“And I hope that good behavior continues once we’re in bed. I’m selfish of my pleasure.”
His gaze was insolent. “I haven’t had any complaints.”
“Then I won’t be wasting my time.”
“I hardly think so. I have more experience than priests or young boys.”
Her brows rose. “Are you monitoring my acquaintances, my lord?”
“Lovers, I think, is the proper word.”
“I doubt I’d have time to list all of yours, and with that thought in mind, I’m going to insist we go to my studio.”
“You like to be in control?”
“Generally.”
“That must be why you concentrate on inexperienced men.”
“If you’d like to begin comparing the qualities of our sex partners, might I point out you were friendly with Countess Marley and Lady Walker, I believe. And several more in their style.”
“Touché.” The ladies all had been stereotypically beautiful but simple.
“So if you’d be so kind as to give your driver my address …”
Tipping his head faintly, he conceded, and conveyed Alex’s direction to his driver.
Sam brought up the subject of painting on the journey into the City because he was intent on being well behaved and thought it prudent to discuss something of interest to the lady. She obviously wasn’t inclined to wanton conduct, or at least not in the carriage, so he gallantly asked questions about her work and listened politely to her answers. He didn’t mention the Gérôme painting of her he owned, in case she would take issue with the reasons he owned it.
And maybe Lillie was right. Maybe Miss Ionides could afford to be different. Certainly, she was unconventional, a quality rare in the females of his class. She had almost a mannish independence, a characteristic both intriguing and disconcerting. But any reservations he might have of her unorthodox nature were more than offset by her glorious sensuality.
She shouldn’t be so shallow as to fall under the spell of Ranelagh’s quintessential charm and dark handsomeness, Alex thought, trying not to stare at him. If she chose to bed him, it should be for reasons other than mere physical attraction. She’d always considered herself an intelligent woman, unmoved by the superficiality of the beau monde, and now she was allowing herself to be charmed by the most profligate libertine in London because she found him overwhelmingly attractive. Such a response didn’t bear close scrutiny, and she deliberately set aside her unsettling thoughts.
Hadn’t she always prided herself on living her life as she chose?
Hadn’t she railed against the binding strictures that limited female options?
So she was physically attracted. What was the harm in that? She found herself relaxing at the obviousness of the answer, and when she said “You can’t really care much about painting, Ranelagh; why don’t you tell me instead of your racers,” her smile was open and warm.
“Feeling better, are we?”
“I’ve put all my demons to rest. I don’t suppose you have any.”
“Honestly, no. And I enjoy hearing of your work. I’ve never known a woman painter before. Does your family approve?”
“As much as I require. They’re rather more traditional than I. Does your family approve of you?”
His mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. “They gave up any thought of approval long ago. They’re conservative in their ways, so I suppose we’ve agreed to disagree.”
She knew an uncle’s legacy had made him a wealthy man, so he wasn’t subject to his family’s whims. “You don’t see much of your family, then?”
“My brother and I are close. The best of friends, actually, and he has children, should I not remarry.”
Without thinking, she said, “The death of your wife must have been a shock.”
His gaze narrowed and a chill invaded his eyes. “Would you like condolences on the deaths of your husbands?”
Instantly recalling the scandalous events of his marriage, she apologized. “Forgive me. I spoke out of turn.”
“As did I.” He’d regained his composure, the sudden coolness gone. “I’m sure the deaths of your husbands were a great sorrow.”
“Yes, they were. Both were men of character.”
“My wife was handpicked by my parents.” He grimaced slightly. “Another reason we don’t get along.”
“Surely you weren’t forced.”
“Let’s just say I gave in to the ten-thousandth lecture on family duty.” His expression went utterly blank for a moment, and then he slowly exhaled, and glancing out the window, noted, “We’re almost there.”
Chapter 7
He was tellingly quiet as the carriage came to rest, and when he helped her alight, she could feel his constraint. After speaking briefly to his driver, he returned to her side.
“He’ll wait if you don’t object to my carriage at your curb.”
“No, not at all,” she replied, wondering if he’d changed his mind, if her gauche remark concerning his wife had terminated his interest. “The neighbors keep their distance.”
He glanced to the left and right, taking in the sizable property surrounding her studio. “Have you been here long?”
“Two years. Would you like to see the studio?” And she waited with a degree of apprehension for his answer.
“Very much, and I apologize for my surliness. I must be tired.”
She smiled. “And now I’ll be surly about the cause of your tiredness—without reason, of course.”
He laughed. “I’m constantly amazed by my reaction to you.”
“While I want you and don’t want you in equal measure.”
“Our principles will be tested, then. I dislike intense emotion of any kind.”
“In amour, you mean.”
While he hesitated over how to answer so pointed a question, she took his hand and drew him toward the ornate gate.
“You needn’t reply, Ranelagh.” His silence had been answer enough, but she wasn’t a moonstruck young maid with unrealistic expectations.
“I find myself apologizing again.” He’d found it uncomfortable to lie when normally dissimilation in these matters was second nature.
“No need. I prefer honesty to glib phrases. And who knows, we may find we don’t suit at all.”
Reaching out, he unlatched the gate and pushed it open. “Not likely.” He leaned forward to kiss her gently.
She’d not expected such tenderness, nor had she expected the rush of heat that delicate kiss could generate. It was no more than a butterfly kiss, courteous and restrained, one a brother might bestow on a sister, or a cousin on a cousin, but the aftermath shimmered through her body with a flooding warmth, and she wondered how she would respond to his love-making when so simple a gesture shook her.
“How do you do it, Ranelagh?”
“I was about to ask the same of you.” Kisses were generally too tame to bring him to instant rut.
She glanced down at his blatant erection stretching his trousers. “We seem to be in accord.”
“Not completely …”
His smile was impudent.
“We should go inside.”
“It might be wise.” His hand tightened on hers.
She smiled. “You wouldn’t be so brash.”
His brows rose. “Normally, no, but then, you tantalize me in the most exceptional way. And you did say the neighbors keep away.”
“If I’m dealing with such impetuosity,” she said, smiling, drawing her hand from his, “I’ll hurry us inside.” And putting actions to words, she quickly moved down the flagstone walk to the door.
The building was new, as were most structures in the exclusive Holland Park area.4 Imaginative new architects were building significant examples of domestic architecture around the original Jacobean mansion at the center of the property. Philip Webb, George Aitchison, William Burges, Richard Norman Shaw, and J. J. Stevenson were all doing their part to contribute to the stature and prominence of the colony of eminent artists and middle-class industrialists, merchants, and bankers who were profiting by the rapidly expanding economy.
Alex’s studio was of red brick, and like so many of the new structures had wide and comfortable windows, high-pitched roofs of tile, a gabled facade, and ivy-covered walls that gave it the homey, lived-in look of a country parsonage. And as if a further decorative touch were in order, someone had left a large bouquet of larkspur on the front step.
Harry had been by, Alex realized. He picked bouquets for her from the public parks despite her remonstrances.
“You have an admirer.”
“Like you, Ranelagh, more than one,” she said, picking up the bouquet.
“Aren’t you going to look at the card?”
Cradling the flowers in her arm, she opened the cobalt-blue door. “I doubt it’s anyone you know.” And Harry’s love notes were always lengthy. “Please, come in.” Stepping over the threshold, she suddenly stopped. Harry was coming toward her down the hallway.
“Do you like my flowers?” he called out.
“Your admirer has made himself at home, it seems.”
Taking note of Ranelagh, Harry’s tone turned petulant. “I thought you were going to the races.”
“He keeps close watch on you,” the viscount drawled.
“And why shouldn’t I?” Harry replied heatedly, bristling like a puppy as he stopped before them. “I know her and you don’t.”
With an insolent gaze Sam surveyed the young man. “If you’d leave, we could become better acquainted.”
“Alex, don’t!”
“Harry, for heaven’s sake. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Why don’t you get the hell out,” Sam said.
“I beg your pardon.” Alex shot a scathing look at Ranelagh.
“Do you want him to stay?” A sudden coolness had entered Sam’s tone.
“Whether I do or not is my decision, not yours, my lord.”
“Well, make up your mind.”
Who did he think he was to give ultimatums. “Thank you for the ride home,” she said crisply. “I wish you good day.”
Sam offered her a stiff bow. “Your servant, ma’am.” He turned and walked away.
“How could you, Alex,” Harry decried. “Ranelagh is the most libertine man in all of London.”
“When I wish your advice, Harry, I’ll be sure to ask for it.” Her voice was sharp. “And I’ll thank you to stay out of my home unless invited. I don’t appreciate you interfering in my life.”
“He’s not good for you, Alex.”
“I think I’m old enough to make my own decisions, Harry. Now, if you’d kindly leave.”
“I’m sorry, truly I am. Please, don’t be angry with me. I’m so very sorry. Let me put those flowers in water for you.” He plucked the bouquet from her arms and rushed down the hall before she could take issue. “I just wanted to make sure you liked the flowers….”
She watched him disappear into her kitchen and sighed softly. So much for her first foray into the world of impulsive behavior. Ranelagh, apparently, required a tractable female. A shame, she reflected with a modicum of regret. He was devilishly attractive. She uttered another small sigh—of resignation; now she had to find a way to politely send Harry on his way.
It took considerable courtesy, because Harry was so intent on pleasing her, she didn’t want to hurt his feelings—a long-standing problem in their friendship, or whatever term best described the nature of their involvement. She agreed, finally, to walk him back to his studio, recognizing she could better oust him without bruising his feelings if she spent some time with him.
It was warm and sunny, a perfect summer day, and in the course of their stroll down the several streets that separated their studios, Alex found herself reconciled to the abrupt departure of Lord Ranelagh. He really wasn’t her style of man anyway. Harry was right. And she’d definitely violated all her usual principles in allowing herself to be seduced by his charm. Perhaps Harry’s appearance had been in the way of fate and she’d been saved from disaster.
A few yards from Harry’s, they met Chloe Addison watering her flowers and were cajoled into coming inside to see her newest painting. Shortly after, Walter Newly stopped by and then Peter Randel, at which point Chloe opened a bottle of wine. The discussions on art took on an increasingly heated tone as the bottle emptied and another was opened—not an unusual circumstance in the coterie of young artists who all had distinctly personal views. But their vigorous debates were without rancor, the analyzing and dissecting of the newest movements and personalities in their field undertaken in a spirit of friendship. Alex always enjoyed the camaraderie and as an added benefit, in the company of others she didn’t have to concern herself with Harry’s possessiveness.
Pandias Ionides could tell his wife was in a pet as she came down the walk from Alexandra’s studio. Sitting in their carriage, he sighed, knowing he would have to use his considerable diplomatic skills to assuage her.
“She’s not here!” Euterpe exclaimed, waving away the groom who had come forward to help her into the carriage. “I went in through the terrace doors,” she continued heatedly, taking her husband’s hand as he leaned forward to assist her into the carriage, “which Alex insists on leaving open”—she dropped into the seat opposite her husband with a wrathful snort—“when I’ve warned her time and time again what might happen to a young woman alone in London!”
Pandias was Greek consul in London and a man of cosmopolitan background, and he was pleased he’d raised a daughter with such modern views, because anyone looking to the future understood the world was rapidly changing. His wife, however, clung to tradition, and his role had always been that of peacemaker between mother and daughter. “I’m sure she just stepped out for a moment,” he soothed. “Or perhaps she’s at her Melbury Road house.”
“Of course she isn’t! She hasn’t stayed there since John Coutts died. And don’t take that cajoling tone with me, Pandias. You know very well she’s quite likely with that scoundrel Ranelagh, because Tula saw them at Ascot and she saw them leave together! Where did I go wrong?” she wailed, her lament one of long standing in regard to their daughter, who had twice married outside the Greek community. “You know she could marry Constantine Spartalis tomorrow, or Vassilis, who’s loved her forever! But no, she insists on living like some bohemian, painting pictures where it’s impossible to recognize a tree from a flower—and she never comes home and stays for more than a few hours! You have to find her, Pandias! And warn off that libertine Ranelagh! Why aren’t we moving? We have to find her!”
The head of the Ionides family knocked on the carriage roof to order his driver on and then leaned forward and took his wife’s hands in his. “I’ll make some inquiries,” he said softly, stroking the backs of her hands. “I’ll find Alex, and I’ll see that she comes to our next Sunday open house.”
“And I don’t want her speaking to that rake Ranelagh again,” his wife insisted, leaning back in the seat, her anger beginning to subside now that her husband had agreed to intervene.
“I’ll
do what I can, dear, but Alex doesn’t always listen. And after two husbands, I can’t very well tell her how to live.”
“You’re too lenient, Pandias. She should have been made to marry one of our own. She should have babies now; she’s thirty years old. I had all our children by the time I was her age.” Her dark eyes took on a melancholy expression. “I just don’t want her hurt. You know what Ranelagh’s like. The whole world knows.”
“I’ll talk to her, I promise. But, darling, she’s probably out with friends. Just because Tula saw Alex and Ranelagh leave Ascot together doesn’t mean they’re together now.”
“For heaven’s sake, Pandias, use your brain,” she bristled. “Alex has spent her entire life doing exactly as she pleases—marrying two old men like she did, focusing all her energy on them and now on her painting. It’s as though she displeases me on purpose!”
There were great similarities in the untrammeled nature of mother and daughter, but Pandias prudently kept his counsel. “Consider how her charities please you, darling. The schools for Greek immigrant children she finances are favorites of yours.”
“Hmpf … at least those old men were good for something.”
“Everyone can’t marry at twenty like we did.”
She sighed. “You were the handsomest man in Athens.”
“And you the most beautiful woman. You still are, darling.” A tall, slender woman, she bore her age well. “Now, don’t you worry.”
“Tell me she’ll be fine, Pandias.” Euterpe Ionides’s eyes filled with tears. “She’s our baby.”
“She’s strong like her mother.” He patted his wife’s hand. “Our baby girl will be just fine.”
Chapter 8
I didn’t dare go inside,” Sam said with a smile, rising from the steps fronting Alex’s cobalt-blue door. “Although you leave your studio open. Did you satisfy your young swain? You’ve been gone quite a while.”
“I can’t see how it’s any business of yours.” Alex had come to rest a small distance away, not sure she wanted to deal with a man who could make her pulse race on sight, not sure she shouldn’t be angry with him for his earlier brusqueness, particularly unsure what he meant by “satisfy.”
Seduction in Mind Page 5