Harry was too possessive. If she hadn’t already been uninterested in men of that ilk, she would have been after the evening with Sam.
But she tried to be courteous; Harry was so ingratiating and pleased to see her, she didn’t have the heart to be cruel. He’d cleaned his studio, brought in enough roses to perfume the block, and had cooked a delicious-smelling stew, which was convenient because she’d forgotten to bring anything.
“Are you hungry?”
How did he know, she wondered, her night of sex having left her ravenous. “I am, just a little,” she said.
“You looked like you were. You kept sniffing the air. It’s almost ready. Sit down, take off your jacket, and I’ll bring you something to eat. Look at my painting while I open some wine.”
She should say no to the wine, because she didn’t want to stay long, but a glass of wine sounded delicious just then, as the food did—as everything did with her senses still activated by the excesses of last night. Damn Ranelagh anyway. It wasn’t fair that he was so extraordinarily good in bed. It made it that much more difficult to walk away from the pleasure. With effort, she forced her thoughts away from the previous night and concentrated on the issues at hand. Sitting down, she shrugged out of her jacket and surveyed Harry’s seascape of Brighton. She would offer her encouragement to Harry—an easy enough prospect when his work was so good—eat quickly, and then leave.
Her obligation to visit him on Friday would be fulfilled, and she could return home and indulge in her sulks in peace. She’d already sent the peignoir to Tina with a note explaining her absence. In her discontent, she wasn’t in the mood to spar with her mother.
“This is one of the bottles Beecher gave me when he sold my painting of the horse fair. I saved it for us.” Harry poured the golden liquid into a goblet for her and filled one for himself. He lifted his glass to her. “To your beauty.”
“Thank you. To your beauty and talent. The seascape is outstanding.”
“I finished it last night because I knew you were coming.”
“Beecher will be pleased.”
“More important, are you pleased?”
“Of course I am. I love all of your work.”
“Now, if you only loved me.”
“Darling … don’t, please. Let’s just have a nice visit.”
“Can you stay?”
She knew what he meant and immediately felt awkward.
“We can talk about it later,” he said quickly, reading her expression. “I’m just glad you’re here.”
“Thank you.” She lifted her glass to him and then drank a goodly portion of the wine. Other men didn’t appeal to her anymore—not that Harry hadn’t been sweet at one time. But she found herself thinking almost exclusively of Sam, of what he might say at a moment like this—or what he might be doing now, and she felt restless and desolate and angry all at once.
The stew was wonderful. Harry was an excellent cook, and he’d combined chicken and curry and an assortment of vegetables into a mélange of flavors so exquisite, Alex forgot her current obsession for a few moments. “You’re as creative a cook as you are a painter. This is fabulous,” she said, smiling.
“Everything’s fabulous when you’re here.”
“Harry, you know how I feel about that.”
“I won’t ask you to do anything you don’t want to do, Alex. I just like having you here. I wish you’d come over more often.”
“Maybe I will if we can be friends.”
“If you want to be friends, we’ll be friends,” he said in a very grown-up way. “But if you ever want to be more than friends”—he smiled—“keep me in mind.”
She gazed at him fondly. “You’re adorable.”
“I know. You’ve told me so. And I’m thinking when you get tired of Ranelagh, maybe you’ll come and see me again.”
Was he prescient? She schooled her face to conceal her shock. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral.
“Make sure you do, because I’ll always be here. I love you, Alex, even if you don’t love me. And not just because you’ve helped me with my career.” He smiled again. “I didn’t even know painters had careers. I thought you painted because you had to.”
“Talented people like you paint because they have to. Others wouldn’t even know what you mean by that compulsion. You’re so good, Harry, I want you to have everything you deserve. And I’ll help you in any way I can.”
“Except you won’t marry me.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “You’d be tired of me within a month. I’m bossy and demanding, and when you saw me in the morning, you’d realize how old I really was.”
“I have seen you in the morning, and you’re beautiful. And you’re only ten years older than I. That’s not so much.” His spirits were high because she hadn’t said no and she hadn’t left and he was never so happy as when he was with her. “And think … you like the way I cook. Wait until you try my plum tart with crème anglaise.”
How could she refuse plum tart? She couldn’t any more than she could refuse Harry’s invitation to sketch with him that afternoon when he had a live model coming to his studio. “I know how much you like to draw from life,” he went on to explain, “so when this man at the market said he’d pose anytime I wanted if I helped him with his watercolors, I wasn’t about to argue. He’s from Syria—Damascus, I think.”
“You’re spoiling me.” She smiled at him, her mood much improved after Beecher’s fine wine, which she drank with the plum tart and crème anglaise.
“I want to spoil you. I want to do everything for you. I’d carry you everywhere if you’d let me.”
The difference between Harry’s devotion and Sam’s profligate self-indulgence was profound. She wondered how she could be so irrational as to choose casual sex over ardent feeling.
But there it was. Without explanation or reason.
She couldn’t get Sam out of her mind even while this young man was pouring his heart out to her.
Taking herself to task, she forced away her thoughts from the infamous viscount and concentrated on Harry’s conversation.
“You always wanted to paint an exotic locale. Why don’t we have Larry pose in desert garb. I had Chloe bring over some of the props from her studio.”
“How is Chloe?” She was the painter Addison’s beautiful daughter and had shown considerable interest in Harry.
“Chloe? Fine, I suppose. I didn’t notice. Look what she brought us.” And he went on to exhibit enthusiastically a full array of desert robes and weapons.
The model arrived soon thereafter. Harry introduced the young man, stumbling over his name.
“Just call me Ben,” the model said kindly. “Everyone does.” The handsome man bowed over Alex’s hand with great courtesy and grace.
They briefly discussed Ben’s homeland, how he’d come to London with the scholars who had been investigating Petra, how he’d been their guide, and once they decided on an appropriate robe and weapons, the afternoon of sketching began.
The work turned out to be just what Alex needed to take her mind from her unwanted fascination with Sam. For those hours while she and Harry worked busily, she didn’t once think of him. Not until they began losing the sun did she even take note of the time.
She’d finished a pastel and a small oil study, both preliminary sketches possibly useful in a larger canvas.
Harry had concentrated on a portrait study in oil and had captured Ben’s face with such vivid realism, the two-dimensional medium had taken on a sculptural quality.
Ben was pleased with the likenesses. While Alex rested, Harry gave the young model his watercolor lesson. She found herself in good humor; she always was when she was working. As she watched Harry help with the watercolor, she marveled at his talent. His hand moved with such sureness. He was kind and considerate in his instructions, always pointing out Ben’s strengths rather than his weaknesses, generously offering praise. Harry really was a very nice
young man, she thought warmly. She was glad she’d come to see him.
This very productive afternoon reminded her of what was truly important in her life. Not sex, nor transient pleasure, but her painting and charities, family and friends like Harry. She had so much to bring her satisfaction. While Sam had been a pleasant interlude, she needed to be sensible about their relationship. Passion alone wasn’t enough for personal fulfillment, nor could she afford to let her infatuation overwhelm her life. More important, she refused to be so susceptible to his or any man’s charm.
When she left, she thanked Harry with genuine warmth. “I so enjoyed myself today. I forget how pleasant it is to work with someone else.”
“Come over and paint with me anytime.” He smiled, then took her hand and shook it. “You see how well mannered I can be. I didn’t try to kiss you once.”
“I noticed,” she replied, smiling too. “I appreciate your restraint.”
He ran his fingers through his long, fair hair and then gently swung his arms and grinned. “Anytime you’re in the mood, though, just let me know. I’m always available.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
“I just thought I’d mention it….”
“I might take you up on your offer sometime.”
“Ben’s coming over again on Monday—if you’d like to join us.”
“Maybe I will.” With a wave and a lighter heart, she left.
Chapter 24
Once she was back in her studio, the memories came flooding back, and practical considerations gave way to emotion. Sam had stood right there, or lounged in that chair, kissed her there and there and there. No matter where she looked, she was reminded of him. She dreaded going into her bedroom, where the searing images would be all too intense.
She tried to paint for a time, but the unfinished garden landscape only escalated the level of her unease, the sunlit scene giving rise to lush memories of the wild, thrilling rapture they’d shared. She finally threw her brushes down, turned the canvas around, shut the door to the garden, and poured herself a brandy.
Slumped in a chair, her drink untouched at her side, she bemoaned the emotional turmoil that had plagued her since meeting Sam. It wasn’t fair, she thought, that he’d entered her life and disrupted her hard-won contentment, nor, she reflected more bitterly, that he’d so easily changed her mind last night. What really wasn’t fair was that he could as easily change any woman’s mind. For a jealous moment, she wished him and all his paramours to the devil.
Cooler counsel surfaced a moment later, and she reminded herself that she had been fully aware of his reputation before she embarked on that first fateful carriage ride. And his seduction last night had been delectable and enchanting as usual. So much as she’d like to blame him, she had no one to blame but herself.
Not a particularly consoling thought, nor one that brought her any measure of peace.
Damn him and his irresistible allure.
When Rosalind walked into Alex’s studio that evening, Alex’s mood hadn’t improved. She’d actually drunk two brandies in an effort to mitigate the worst of her temper, canceled two appointments, tried to nap without success, dusted her entire studio, after which she made a note to increase her maid’s wages or throw out some of the porcelain and artifacts littering her shelves and tables. And now she was seriously thinking about going to see Harry—as a diversion to her black mood.
“See Harry later,” Rosalind suggested, standing in the doorway of the dust-free studio. “Right now you have to dress. Have you forgotten we’re expected at Caroline’s for dinner?”
Alex didn’t move from her Empire chaise, her gaze, if not sullen, decidedly morose. “I’m not going.”
Rosalind settled into a chair in a rustle of pale blue silk, her matching pale blue gaze direct. “Ranelagh’s not worth it,” she said briskly.
A flash of surprise crossed Alex’s face. “Is it that obvious?”
Leaning forward in a twinkle of sapphire ear drops, Rosalind patted Alex’s hand. “He’s the divine and glorious Ranelagh, darling. What did you expect?”
“Perhaps I didn’t realize the full extent of his deification,” Alex muttered.
“His godlike attributes are well known to anyone interested in dalliance. You’ve just never concerned yourself with amour before. If you want my advice, I’d suggest you get up, get dressed, go out tonight, and forget Ranelagh.”
“Because he’s sure to forget me, you mean.”
Rosalind lifted one bare shoulder. “How blunt do you wish me to be?” And when Alex didn’t answer, she said, “He leaves them all. But it’s not as though you’re looking for more.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you?”
“No, of course not. In fact, I’m angry with him. Or, more aptly, resentful of his damned expertise—oh, hell … of all the women. I refuse to be another of the hundreds or thousands. I left him this morning while he was sleeping.”
“Really. He must have been surprised when he woke. How clever of you to leave him guessing. I don’t expect that ever happens to him.”
“I wasn’t intending to be clever. He annoyed me.” But Rosalind’s remark offered a new interpretation of Sam’s displeasure with her seeing Harry. Was his vanity involved rather than his feelings?
Rosalind leaned forward in her chair. “Tell me everything.”
“Relax, Rosie. There’s no juicy gossip to offer up. We just argued about my seeing Harry. For some reason, Ranelagh felt he could tell me what to do.” She didn’t mention their disagreement over the child because Rosalind wouldn’t possibly understand.
“Do you think you were mistaken? It hardly seems like Ranelagh to restrict a woman’s friendships.”
“I could have been mistaken, I suppose.”
“You’re not in this mood just because Ranelagh didn’t want you to see Harry?”
Alex shrugged. “No—I don’t know; I’m not sure what I think. I’m trying to sort out my feelings.”
“So you have feelings for him.” Rosalind made a small moue. “I’m not sure that’s wise, darling … considering—well, considering the sheer number of women who have passed through his life.”
“Which is the pertinent point, is it not?” Alex sighed softly. “I’m trying to deal with this whole episode wisely.”
“Good for you. We’ll go to Caroline’s tonight and you can show everyone your liaison with Ranelagh has not impaired your better judgment.”
“But Caroline’s.” Alex wrinkled her nose. “It’s sure to be boring.”
“If you recall, she’s invited the entire Russian ballet troupe currently onstage at the Apollo. It’s their night off, and both Serge Voronkin and Nikki Linsky are enough to take anyone’s mind off anything at all….” Rosalind’s pale brows rose and her smile was suggestive. “Just a passing thought to jog you out of that chaise.”
“I suppose it’s better than drowning my sorrows in vile brandy.”
“You can drown your sorrows in Serge’s soulful Slavic gaze instead. Or if you’re not in the mood to throw yourself into another man’s arms, maybe you could talk to Serge and Nikki about painting their portraits in their costumes from Boris Godunov. I adore those form-fitting ballet tights, and you might too”—her brows arched upward—“if you know what I mean.”
Alex laughed. “Have you nothing better to do than suggest lovers for me?”
“But, darling, think how much more exciting my life has become now that you’re a wicked widow.”
“I wish I were a wicked widow; then I could cavalierly deal with men like Sam Lennox. Although if I’m to serve as surrogate for your virtuous life, kindly find me someone who will be enchanting but not too enchanting. I don’t want to want a man like I want Sam.”
“But it’s his specialty, my dear. Why wouldn’t he be a superb lover? A diversion will do you good. Wear your Indian silk tonight and those wonderful diamond earrings you bought in Paris, and I’ll see that you meet Serge and Nikki.” Rosalind smiled. “Would you like them b
oth?”
“That certainly would be in the nature of a diversion,” Alex noted sardonically. “If I felt like talking to a man—which I don’t.”
“Nonsense,” Rosalind replied, not inclined to leave without her friend. “Wait until you meet Serge.”
With Rosalind’s nudging and cajoling, Alex was eventually dressed, the vivid gold-shot turquoise silk a resplendent foil for her auburn hair and creamy skin. The sheer silk overlay a crepe slip in a matching hue, the low décolletage and jeweled belt of flamboyant gems a lure to the eye. It was a dramatic gown. But in the mood she was in, Alex welcomed the drama. At least, it offered an alternative to her peevishness. It served as well to project a dégagé image that suggested she was perfectly fine without Ranelagh, because everyone at dinner would have heard of their liaison.
She wanted to show them she was in excellent spirits.
See.
Dinner was less boring than she’d expected. The darkly handsome Serge sat beside her and flattered her with his attention. He had long black hair, Oriental eyes, high cheekbones, and a muscled body that was evident even beneath his superbly tailored evening clothes. She enjoyed their bantering conversation as much as she enjoyed his descriptions of his native country. But when he began to rub his foot against hers as they were finishing their desserts, she found herself profoundly indifferent—as though her brother might have accidentally touched her.
Was something wrong with her? she wondered. She glanced at him as though trying to find some reason to respond.
He smiled.
She smiled back.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked, soft suggestion in his voice.
She was about to refuse, when Caroline cried, “Sam, you darling! You came after all!”
Everyone’s gaze turned to the door.
Dazzlingly handsome, resplendent in white tie and tails, his dark hair gleaming in the lamplight, the Viscount Ranelagh bestowed a smile on his hostess. “You’re the only cousin I like,” he drawled softly, but the room was so quiet, his voice carried to the farthest corner.
Seduction in Mind Page 19