Gorgeous as Sin (18 page)

“If she’s a female doctor, she’s by definition good,” Hutchinson pointed out. “Otherwise she’d never have been admitted to medical school or granted a degree.”

“You’re right; I stand corrected. If you’d have her call on Mrs. St. Vincent as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it. Naturally, see that she’s well paid for her time.”

“Consider it done.” Apparently Groveland was willing to overlook Mrs. St. Vincent’s exposé for the benefits of her company. Hutchinson pulled a sheet of paper toward him, picked up a pen, and began writing.

Moments later, Fitz was standing on the pavement wondering if he
should
escape the city for a time. While his comment had been a spontaneous act of evasion—unnerving thought—distancing himself from Mrs. St. Vincent’s potent allure would give him the opportunity to regard her more dispassionately.

She’d gotten under his skin—alarmingly so.

Touched previously impervious nerves.

Incited a degree of sexual yearning he’d never experienced before.

Christ, just thinking of her brought him erect even with her using him for all the world to read.

Quickly moving down the street, he forced himself to think of something less arousing—or maybe something equally arousing but within his ability to control. Clarissa had said her husband was away from the city. Why not pay her a visit, restore his sense of equilibrium as it were—about fucking?

Redress his renegade tailspin into some manic craving.

Reestablish casual sex as an unimpeachable certainty in his life.

Good God, he thought, turning toward Hyde Park, he was in enough of a quandary that he was actually looking forward to having Clarissa storm and rage at him. Temporarily, of course. Then she’d turn sulky and pout, he’d cajole and flatter—he knew how to play the game. Eventually she’d begin to smile, and in due time she’d welcome him into her bed because her husband was old, she wasn’t, and her appetite for sex was voracious.

Chapter 21

A FREQUENT VISITOR of late when Lord Buckley was away from home, Fitz was welcomed by Eliot, the butler. “Is Lady Buckley in?” Fitz inquired, although he wouldn’t have been ushered in if she wasn’t.

“The mistress is resting.” A code of sorts.

Fitz handed over his gloves and cane. “I’ll see myself up.” He half turned as he reached the base of the stairs. “Lord Buckley is away? ”

“For a fortnight, Your Grace.” The duke was generous with his gratuities.

“Thank you. Some champagne when you have time.” Then Fitz took the stairs two at a time, goaded by a need to efface restive memory. Clarissa was safe, familiar—like him in her untrammeled approach to amour. And right now, he needed a reliable touchstone to the civility that passed for feeling in the fashionable world.

Reaching the door to her apartments, he walked into the sitting room unannounced. A maid was dusting Clarissa’s many bibelots scattered over the tabletops. “Lady Buckley won’t be needing you,” he politely said.

The young woman blushed, curtsied, darted for the door, only to turn at the last to watch Fitz stroll toward Clarissa’s boudoir. A small sigh escaped her; all the ladies on the staff were hoping the duke would take notice of them. He was known for his unrestricted hospitality toward women of all classes. Shutting the door behind her a moment later, she rushed toward the back stairs to share news of the duke’s visit with her female coworkers.

Unaware of the burning interest he generated in the female staff, Fitz paused at Clarissa’s bedroom door and flexed his fingers. Clarissa was prone to throw things when in a pet.

On alert and prepared, he pressed down on the latch and shoved open the dove grey door.

Clarissa was sitting at her dressing table. Catching sight of him in the mirror, she grabbed a silver-handled brush, spun around, and flung the brush at his head. “Get out you beastly man! Out, out, out!”

Deftly catching the missile, Fitz dropped it on a chair and moved forward, his palms up in appeasement. “I’ve come to apologize. I shouldn’t have left you last night. I had too much to drink.”

“No you didn’t,” Clarissa snapped, tossing her golden curls with a theatrical flourish. “Everyone knows you can drink a battalion under the table. You followed that red-haired tart. Don’t say a word. I saw you. Is she your newest hussy? ” she sneered.

“No, she’s nobody.”

“Obviously, she’s a nobody,” Clarissa said with a contemptuous little sniff. “I’ve never seen her before.” The beau monde was small, cloistered, and exclusive.

Not about to discuss Mrs. St. Vincent when he was in Clarissa’s boudoir in order to forget her, pleased to see that her expression had softened, Fitz pulled up a chair and sat. “Tell me what I must do to apologize for my boorishness last night?” His voice drifted lower, turned husky. “I’m quite willing to say or
do
just about anything to earn your favor.”

A smile began to form on Clarissa’s full lips, her eyes widened in feigned surprise. “Anything at all?” Clarissa whispered, deliberately shifting on the tufted stool so her pink lace dressing gown fell partially open above and below the tie at her waist.

“Just name it, sweetheart,” he drawled, taking note of the lush expanse of silken flesh on display. “I’ve been thinking about you all morning.” He lounged back in the gilt rococo chair, confident that detente had been reached.

“What a darling,” Clarissa purred. “So you’ve been thinking of me . . .”

“Ever since I woke,” he lied, surveying her with a roving glance that lingered for a moment on her splendid breasts showcased in the wide gap of her dressing gown. “I shouldn’t have walked away so rudely.”

“But you did, you bad, bad boy.” Holding his gaze, she pursed her lips in a sultry little pout. “And with a little nobody.”

“It was business.”

Clarissa softly snorted. “Please.”

“It was. She owns a bookstore I’m trying to buy.” He recognized some minimum explanation was required.

“You and a
bookstore
?” Clarissa’s pale brows rose. “You can do better than that.”

“It’s true. It’s near a property I’m developing.”
Reveal only what’s necessary to allay suspicion—no more.

Clarissa stared at him for a moment, her gaze assessing. “You actually mean it.”

He smiled. “I actually do. Am I forgiven now? ”

Her lashes drifted lower. “Perhaps.”

He opened his arms in a conciliatory gesture. “I came to make amends, darling. Just tell me what you require as penance.”

“Penance?” A mischievous gleam came into her eyes. “What a tantalizing notion.”

He laughed. “Will whips be involved? ”

“Does it matter? ”

“It depends on who’s holding the whip.”

She smiled. “Barbarian. Must you always be in charge?”

“It’s a habit,” he drawled.

“And a very nice one come to think of it,” she whispered, memories of Fitz’s dominant role in bed arousing her senses. With a husband like hers who was not only old but also pale and bloodless after years behind a desk, Fitz’s sheer maleness was a potent aphrodisiac. Not that Harold hadn’t made piles of money while working behind that desk, for which she was grateful. But money didn’t satisfy her sexual cravings. “To be perfectly honest, darling, I have no good reason to take offense about last night. I might have done the same to you. We both are who we are,” she said with a candor that surprised even herself. “Thank you for coming to visit me today.” She smiled. “For your ears only, darling, but you are a most welcome change from my husband.”

And you from Mrs. St. Vincent.
“While you’re the most delectable woman I know,” he smoothly returned.

Rising, she took two steps, dropped into Fitz’s lap, and twined her arms around his neck. “I adore your flattery,” she whispered, “and your, shall we say, excessive stamina. You make me very happy, and God knows such feelings are rare in our world.”

Clarissa had done her duty by her family, marrying a rich man old enough to be her father. That she would indulge herself on occasion was to be expected. Who in the ton wouldn’t? But she was also surprisingly frank today. “You’re speaking your mind, sweetheart.” His gaze was amused as he held her lightly in his arms. “Should I be worried? ”

She gave a little twitch of her shoulder. “How long have we known each other? I don’t mean as lovers—socially.”

He did a quick mental calculation; she was quite a bit younger than he. “Six years.”

“I’ve been married seven years.”

A wary look came into his eyes. “Don’t say you want a child.”

She laughed. “Good God, Fitz, don’t flinch like that. Relax, I don’t want a child. Harold already has all those awful children from his first marriage—who think they’re going to inherit his fortune,” she said with a flicker of her brows. “Not that they’ll be penniless, but I’m getting my share.”

“Good for you.”

“I’ve earned it.”

He didn’t doubt she had. Lord Buckley wasn’t known for his charming personality. Wales liked him for his millions, and the rest of society tolerated him because of Wales. “You’ve earned a little holiday from time to time as well.”

She giggled and leaning close, kissed his cheek. “What’s your excuse, darling? You have no one to command your life.”

He grinned. “Perhaps, I just like holidays.” And today he truly needed a respite from real life.

She wiggled on his lap, gauging the extent of his readiness. “Hmm, you feel wonderful—as usual, I might add.”

He smiled. “The feeling’s mutual.”

“What do you want to do first? ” she whispered, licking his ear.

Fuck until all thoughts of Mrs. St. Vincent are eradicated.
“You decide,” he said as his erection swelled. “I’m at your disposal.”

She leaned back enough to meet his gaze. “I
love
when you let me play the upstairs maid.”

He grinned, and instead of saying
You want that again?
he said gruffly, “Have you turned down my bed, Mattie? ”

Clapping her palms to her cheeks, her blue eyes wide, Clarissa whispered, “I’m sorry. I completely forgot.”

“It seems as though you’re going to require additional training, my dear. You need to better learn how to anticipate my needs. A good maid anticipates, Mattie,” he sternly said. “How many times have I told you that? ”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, so very sorry. I promise, it won’t happen again.”

“It better not happen again or I’ll have to dismiss you without a character.”

“No, no, please . . . don’t be cruel. I’ll be ever so good.”

“It’s not a question of goodness, my dear Mattie; it’s competence that’s required of a servant. That and knowing how to implicitly follow orders. If I give you one more chance, will you mend your ways? ”

“I’ll do anything, Your Grace. Just don’t dismiss me without a character.”

“Very well. Go over and ready the bed for me. And yourself. You know what I require.”

A rap on the door interrupted the little drama.

Clarissa was about to shout, “Go away,” when Fitz put his finger over her mouth and called out, “Come in.”

A flunkey entered carrying a tray with a bottle and glasses. Quickly averting his eyes, he hesitated.

“Set it down anywhere,” Fitz said blandly. “And thank you.”

When the door quietly shut on the servant, Fitz slapped Clarissa’s bottom. “Go. Fix the bed.”

She didn’t move. “What makes you think you can order champagne in my house? ”

“I thought I might pour it in your pussy and lick it up.”

She giggled. “In that case, how can I be angry with you? ”

“How indeed. Now, are you going to put on your maid’s cap and take care of my needs or should I go home? ”

“Don’t you dare!”

“I really don’t think a maid should talk to her master in that fractious tone.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“That’s better. Now move.”

While Clarissa scrambled to find her maid’s apron and cap in her lingerie semanier, Fitz opened the bottle of champagne and drank down a goodly portion, fortifying himself for the coming drama. Then he rose from the chair and moved to the bed, stopping to pick up the robe Clarissa had discarded on the floor. Stripping the braided-silk tie from the pink lace peignoir, he wrapped it around his fist, leaving enough tail to serve as a whip.

“You’re much too slow, Mattie,” he grumbled as he approached the bed. “You haven’t straightened the sheets.”

“It’ll be ready directly, Your Grace,” Clarissa hastily replied, setting the little lace cap on her curls. Offering him a deferential little curtsey, she dashed toward the bed. “Just one minute more, Your Grace!”

Nude except for a scrap of lace apron tied at her waist, she could have been featured on any of the lewd postcards sold on the streets of London. With her huge breasts, narrow waist, and full hips, there was no question why she’d been able to snare a man of Buckley’s wealth, Fitz decided. She was the archetype for fashionable female beauty: bounteous and shapely, a pretty face, and nothing but pleasure on her mind.

“What in the world are you doing? ” He unbuttoned his suit coat and shrugged it off. “I swear you haven’t learned a thing since last week. You know what’s going to happen if you can’t perform your duties properly.”

“Please, Your Grace—look, I’m making the bed ever so perfect!” Quickly running her palms over the bottom sheet, she was making a hash out of smoothing the linen, household duties not Clarissa’s field of accomplishment.

Fitz smiled faintly at her clumsiness. “If you didn’t have such a juicy cunt,” he drawled, “I’d fire you in a minute. You’re fortunate I like a wet little quim like yours, Mattie, or you’d be out on the street. Although, you still might be,” he growled, “if you don’t improve.”

She spun around, her fleshy breasts jiggling with her brisk pirouette. “Please, please, don’t fire me, Your Grace. I’ll do anything—anything at all!” And she licked her bottom lip like the little tart she was.

“If you’re trying to entice me, Mattie, it won’t work,” he said harshly, scowling appropriately in his role as truculent master. “I want a maid who works, not plays the strumpet. Your attempt at seduction offends me; I am a God-fearing man! Now, bend over,” he coldly ordered. “You must be punished for your impertinence.”

Clarissa turned and fell facedown over the side of the bed with lightning speed, her arms spread wide, her lush bottom advantageously positioned.

“I hope you’re just being dutiful, Mattie,” Fitz acidly remarked. “I hope you’re not looking forward to your whipping.”

“Oh no, Your Grace!” she cried. “I’m scared to death of my whipping. It’s ever so painful, Your Grace, and leaves my poor bottom sore and stinging. I can’t hardly sit for a week.”

“Perhaps you’ll learn your lesson one of these days,” Fitz testily said. “You understand, I take no pleasure in whipping you, but your incompetence can’t be tolerated. If I allow such behavior to continue, soon my entire staff will be in disarray.”

“I know that. I most certainly do,” she obsequiously murmured. “I can tell, Your Grace, how much you dislike whipping me.”

Her pink bottom was swaying from side to side, her lush sex slick and primed, and Fitz knew if he rammed his cock into her, he’d slide in like a knife through butter. “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you,” he growled. “Now lift your bottom higher so I have a better view of your juicy slit.”

“Like this, Your Grace. Is this high enough?” she said soft and breathy, rising on her toes and tilting her derriere upward.

“It’ll do for now,” he muttered. “And don’t forget, if you cry out, I’ll stop.”

“I won’t,” she softly panted. “I promise.”

Raising his hand high, he brought the braided silk down and whacked her plump, rosy bottom soundly, the force of his blow leaving a red welt on her pale flesh.

Whimpering, she clenched her thighs tightly against the fierce pleasure throbbing through her vagina, trying to ward off an immediate orgasm, wanting the wild, seething thrill to last. She adored this game; it always made her dripping wet, or maybe it was the way Fitz played his part. He was a natural tyrant, sweet man, although she cared less about his motivations and more about the serial orgasms he offered her.