“It’s God’s own truth,” Sofia pointed out. “You’re just not thinking objectively because you’re focusing on Groveland’s mercenary motives. In contrast, his actual performance was superlative in every way you said. And that’s a more vital priority, it seems to me, than why he was in your bed.” She smiled slyly. “Which begs the question: How many times did you climax?”
“For heaven’s sake, Sofia!”
“You’re red as a beet so it must have been more than once. How many more?”
“I have no intention of telling you,” Rosalind muttered, shifting in her chair as a disquieting tremor of delectable recall stirred through her senses.
“Fine, don’t. But look, darling, you have some glorious memories if nothing else,” Sofia softly observed. “That’s not all bad.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Rosalind grudgingly conceded.
“And you’ve been celibate for ages. You absolutely needed some wild, passionate sex.”
“Sofia, good gracious, stop!”
“What if he comes back?” Sofia drawled, pale and ethereal against the cabbage rose chintz cushions. “Are you going to sleep with him again?”
“He’s not coming back, believe me. He left in a huff.”
“Did he now,” Sofia murmured, her pale brows lifting into delicate arcs. “A huff? I’m surprised. Groveland is known for his nonchalance.”
“He was in a rage over the store,” Rosalind explained. “It had nothing to do with me.”
“He has been relentless in his pursuit of your property. Just think, you may be the only person who has ever said no to him.”
“Then it’s about time the great and mighty Duke of Groveland realizes that he can’t have everything he wants in life,” Rosalind crisply declared. “The rest of us learned that stark truth long ago.”
“But, consider, darling, he is a duke-and a very wealthy one,” Sofia waggishly noted. “He’s always gotten everything he’s wanted.”
Rosalind smiled for the first time since their discussion had turned on Groveland. “I confess, the thought of having dealt him perhaps his first defeat in a life of endless privilege is gratifying.”
“As gratifying as sex with him?”
Rosalind looked amused. “Let’s just call it a draw.”
Sofia laughed. “So he’s that good.”
“Yes, indeed.” Only a Jesuit could have argued the point.
“Then why not use him again?” Sofia saw men as means to various ends; she was a modern woman in every sense of the generally disparaging term. Not that she noticed or cared.
“Like a gigolo, you mean?”
“Except in this case you don’t have to pay him. He’ll probably pay you.”
Rosalind looked startled. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean he always dispenses lavish gifts. Leighton’s model Flora said he sent her a very expensive ruby bracelet the next day. If he didn’t leave you anything, he’ll probably send you something today.”
“I should hope not! I’m not one of his doxies!”
Sofia shook her head in bemusement. “You’re soo old-fashioned, darling, and too decorous by half. Having sex with someone doesn’t make you a tart. All the society ladies sleep with everyone, and they certainly don’t regard themselves as hussies. They expect gifts, believe me.”
“Well I certainly have no intention of taking gifts from Groveland!”
“My God! He gave you something!” Sofia sat up straight and fixed Rosalind with a sharp look. “Don’t lie; you’re blushing clear down to your toes. Tell me! What did he give you?”
“I already sent them back.” Rosalind didn’t say with whom, wishing to avoid the grilling that would ensue.
“Sent them back? Not just one item? He must have had a really good time,” she teased. “Now, I really want all the details.”
Understanding an answer was required or Sofia would continue badgering, Rosalind said crisply, “He left some expensive jewelry, several things; I didn’t count them.”
“Oh Lord,” Sofia softly exclaimed. “You’re such a complete innocent. But a very sweet one,” she added with a smile. “Groveland must be absolutely flummoxed. I doubt anyone’s ever returned his pricey trinkets.” Sofia gave her friend a long, assessing look. “If you ask me, he’s going to be even more intrigued now.”
Pursed lipped, Rosalind shook her head. “He’s not intrigued, nor am I. We’re both very much not intrigued. We are, in fact, archenemies.”
“Whatever you say,” Sofia murmured, although she was thinking that the lady doth protest too much. Very interesting, Sofia reflected: the pure-in-heart Rosalind and the prodigal rake.
“Then what I say is enough about Groveland,” Rosalind firmly declared. “I’m finished discussing him. His servants came for his paintings a few hours ago, which means I will not have to see or think about the despicable man again!”
“Very well. No more talk of Groveland,” Sofia tactfully agreed. “Did I tell you Arthur is taking me to an exhibit at the National Gallery tonight?” The drama of Rosalind and Groveland would unfold all in good time, Sofia decided. She had but to sit back and wait for the curtain to rise.
“How nice. Which exhibit?”
“The Turner watercolors. You should come with us since you’re forever drooling over Turner’s work.”
Rosalind thought for a moment. “Maybe I will.”
“So you say, but you never actually do,” Sofia retorted. “Why not come this time? We’re going to visit some friend of Arthur’s afterward. He’s an up-and-coming architect with a new house in Holland Park. Modest, but in the newest style, Arthur says. You might even meet some nice man there. Someone exactly opposite of Groveland.”
When in the past Rosalind would have refused the invitation, she suddenly felt the need for some alternative to the potent memories of last night still roiling her brain. Despite her repudiation, she was finding it difficult to forget Groveland and the pleasure he so charmingly dispensed. “I will go with you this time,” she said decisively. “What are you wearing?”
“One of Glynis’s gowns. Wear the saffron silk she made for you. It’s wonderful with your hair.” Sofia smiled. “I’m glad you’re coming with us. Should Arthur bring an escort for you?”
“No, no, please,” Rosalind quickly replied, putting up her hand as further deterrent. “I just want to enjoy the show. I’m not in the mood to be entertaining.”
But all the talk of Groveland had set her creative juices flowing, and after Sofia left, she sat in a comfortable chair near the window and quickly filled fifteen pages of her notebook with the opening scene of a new series.
In her excitement over the new story that was practically writing itself, Rosalind closed the store for ten minutes during a lull in the afternoon and ran the first chapter over to Mr. Edding.
After nervously waiting for a customer to leave his shop, she dropped her pages on the counter and said with a degree of agitation, “I can’t wait. I locked up my shop to dash over here. It’s the first chapter of my new series, The Duke’s Doxy.”
“Capital! We go to press tonight so it’s very opportune! Wait, wait, let me pay you,” he quickly added as Rosalind made for the door. Swiftly counting out the bills, Mr. Edding slipped them into an envelope and slid it across the counter.
A moment later, he watched Mrs. St. Vincent rush away and began mentally estimating the profits he’d realize from a second series by his very popular new author.
The moment the store closed for the day, Mr. Edding saw that Rosalind’s first chapter was delivered to the printer in the East End.
It would be hot off the presses and on sale in the morning.