Sexy As Hell (43 page)

Jamie smiled. “That too.”

“Someday the right woman is going to change your mind about marriage.”

Jamie gently shook his head. “Don’t waste your breath. Unlike you, I’ve never been enthralled with the concept of love. Several of your youthful infatuations come to mind,” Jamie added with a grin, “if you’d like me to refresh your memory.”

“God, no. In any case, Vicky’s different.”

“Which is why you married her. I’m not questioning your sincerity. I just lack the necessary sense of devotion.” Leaning over, Jamie picked up the decanter and refilled his glass.

“I used to think as much.”

Jamie shot his cousin a jaundiced glance, but rather than argue his cousin’s past history with women, Jamie set down the crystal container and politely said, “Even if I were inclined to endorse the notion of love and marriage,
at the moment
, I’m up to my ears in risky ventures. As you well know, the Hapsburg Empire’s in decline; every petty despot with an army at his back is jockeying for position.”

“Including Prince Ernst.”

“Including him.” Leaning back in his chair, Jamie met his cousin’s gaze with his usual immutable calm. “He’s as ambitious as the rest. And why shouldn’t he be? Twenty generations of Battenburgs have ruled that piece of prime real estate, offered up their resources and sons to the emperor when needed, and played a significant role in the Hapsburg prosperity.”

“As your family has for the Battenburgs.” Jamie’s forebears had fled Scotland after the ’45 defeat and sold the services of their fighting clan to the Duchy of Dalmia.

“With due compensation,” Jamie serenely said, John’s red hair gleaming in the lamplight reminding him of his mother’s. Their mothers had been cousins. Shaking off the melancholy that always overcame him on recall of his mother’s unnecessary death, he pushed up from his lounging pose and said,

“You heard, of course, that Uncle Douglas came back from India with a fortune.”

“And a native wife.”

“A very beautiful wife. He’s looking to invest his money. I told him to talk to you. You’ve guarded my investments well,” Jamie said with a grin.

“Anyone could. Other than upkeep on your Dalmian estate, you don’t spend any money.”

“I don’t have time. Guarding Ernst is a round-the-clock commission.”

“Speaking of guarding, who’s protecting Ernst in your absence?”

“He’s on holiday with his newest paramour, who rules a duchy of her own with a small army and a top-notch palace guard.” Lifting his glass to his mouth, Jamie arched his brows. “Adequate deterrent to any assassin,” he murmured and drank down half the whiskey.

“Which explains
your
holiday in Scotland.”

“A much needed holiday,” Jamie softly replied, lowering his glass to the chair arm.

John looked surprised. “Do I detect a modicum of frustration? Is Ernst spending too much time in libertine pursuits—silly question.”

“Let’s just say he doesn’t have his father’s sense of responsibility.”

“Or any responsibility at all.”

“He was perhaps too indulged.” Jamie shrugged. “A problem at a time when Dalmia could use a ruler of insight and diligence.”

“Haven’t the Balkans always been a tinderbox?”

“It’s worse now. The wolves are beginning to circle with the emperor’s grip on power weakening. They smell blood. And rightly so. It’s just a matter of time until Franz Joseph dies and all hell breaks loose.” Jamie grimaced. “But screw it. I’m not there, I’m here. Tell me about your thoroughbreds instead. Rumor has it your chestnut brute’s going to take all the major races next year.” The last thing Jamie wished to dwell on was the crumbling Hapsburg Empire and the approaching deluge.

“You should plan on being here for the Derby next year,” John pleasantly said, urbanely shifting topics. “Shalizar’s going to win by ten lengths. You can bet on it.”

“In that case,” Jamie drawled, “I shall—heavily.”

“As will I. A pity you don’t have time to see my stud at Bellingham.”

“Next time. I promised Davy I’d meet him day after tomorrow. He’s coming down from the hills to meet me.”

The two men, long friends—their family resemblance clear despite their disparate coloring—went on to discuss the merits of various horses and trainers, bloodlines and jockeys. The quiet study was peaceful, a temporary hermitage in a quarrelsome, perilous world and the fine highland whiskey served its purpose as well—lessening Jamie’s disquiet. Neither touched on the serious or personal, both careful to keep the conversation companionable and toward dawn, cheerfully drunk, the two men parted ways.

John went upstairs to his wife.

Jamie strolled to Grosvenor Square, entered a large house through a back door, conveniently unlocked, took the servants’ stairs to the second floor and entered a shadowed bedchamber.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” Bella drowsily murmured, gazing at Jamie from under her lashes.

“I said I would.” Quietly closing the door, he slipped off his swallowtail coat, dropped it on the floor, and, pulling his shirt studs free, moved toward the bed.

“How nice.” Pushing up on her elbows, Bella smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met an honest man.”

Jamie grinned. “I have an excuse. I live outside the fashionable world.”

“Too far outside at the moment,” she purred, tossing the covers aside. “Do come in . . .”

THE NEXT MORNING, the sultry air heavy with the promise of rain, Sofia Eastleigh was cooling her heels in a small waiting room off the entrance hall of Minton House and becoming increasingly agitated. She didn’t as a rule agree to paint society portraits, finding those in the fashionable world too spoiled or difficult to sit the necessary hours required to complete a painting. But Bella, Countess of Minton, was one of the reigning beauties of the day—not to be discounted when it came to publicity—and she was generous as well in terms of a fee.

She’d give her five minutes more, Sofia resentfully decided, and then the countess and her money could go to hell. With her artwork much sought after, Sofia didn’t
need
the money. Nor did she appreciate being kept waiting like a servant for—she glanced at the splendid Boulle clock on the mantel—dammit . . .
thirty-five
minutes!

Rising to her feet, she was slipping on her gloves when the waiting room door was thrown open by a liveried flunky, Bella was announced, and a moment later, a radiant, blushing countess, obviously just risen from bed, swept into the room, trailing lavender mousseline and a cloud of scent.

“Good, you’re still here. A matter of some importance delayed me.”

The countess’s partner in that important matter strolled into the room behind her and offered Sofia an engaging smile. “I’m sorry you had to wait. Please, accept my apology. Bella tells me you’re an artist of great renown.”

“The baron will keep me company while you paint,” the countess briskly interposed, ignoring Jamie’s apology. “We’re quite ready if you are.”

Understanding that Bella viewed an artist as a trades person, consequently not due the courtesies, Jamie introduced himself. “You’re Miss Eastleigh I presume. James Blackwood at your service.”

Even with her temper in high dudgeon, Sofia couldn’t help but think,
Wouldn’t that be grand to be serviced by a big, handsome brute like you.
The man was splendid—tall, dark, powerfully muscled, and all male, with the languid gait of a panther and the green eyes to match. Now there was a portrait worth painting. She’d portray him as he was, casually dressed in the remnants of last night’s evening rig, his dark hair in mild disarray. He wore a cambric shirt and trousers, the shirt open at the neck, his long, muscular legs shown to advantage in well-tailored black wool, his feet bare in his evening shoes.

A faint carnal tremor raced through her senses.

Commonplace and not in the least disconcerting.

She found handsome men attractive and, in many cases, useful.

A modern woman, a bohemian in terms of cultural mores, Sofia enjoyed lovemaking. But on her terms. She decided if a man suited her, she decided when and if to make love, and whether to continue a relationship—mostly she didn’t, preferring men as transient diversions in her life. Although, for a gorgeous animal like Blackwood, she might be inclined to alter her rules and keep him for a time. He had the look of a man who was more than capable of satisfying a woman. And the fact that the countess—who had a reputation for dalliance—was obviously captivated by him was testament to his competence.

 

 

 

TAKING JEALOUS NOTE of Sofia’s admiring gaze, for a brief moment Bella debated canceling the sitting. On second thought, the pale, slender artist was hardly the type of woman to appeal to Jamie, who preferred women of substance who could keep up with him in bed. The little painter looked as though a good wind would blow her away. “Come, Miss Eastleigh,” Bella crisply commanded. “I have another appointment after your sitting.”

Following the women from the waiting room, Jamie contemplated the stark differences between the two beauties, the lively contrasts of blonde femininity intriguing. Miss Eastleigh was slender with hair the color of sunshine on snow, her pale loveliness poetic and ethereal—like an Arthurian Isolde who might bruise with the slightest touch. Bella, on the other hand, didn’t bruise at all, as he well knew after two days of wild, untrammeled sex. Bella’s golden splendor was that of a robust flesh and blood Valkyrie: passionate, impatient, demanding. He understood why Charlie preferred his sweet, young mistress in Chelsea from time to time if for no other reason than to rest.

A few minutes later, they entered the small sun-filled conservatory where Sofia had set up her easel. Bella disposed herself on the chaise in David’s
Madame Recamier
pose, waved Jamie into a chair opposite her, and sweetly cajoling, murmured, “Darling, tell me how I might tempt you to stay. Surely, your Highlands can wait for a day or so.” She spoke as if Sofia didn’t exist. “And don’t say you must go immediately because you don’t when you’re here for an entire fortnight.”

“If Tom wasn’t coming down from the hills to meet me I could change my plans, but it’s a long, rough trek for him. It wouldn’t be fair to waste his time.”

“He’s your gilly for heaven’s sake. Send him a telegram. He can wait for you in Inverness for a day or so.”

“We can talk about this later,” he quietly said.

“Why? Oh, you think Miss Eastleigh is mindful. Of course she isn’t.” A duke’s daughter would, of course, hold such an opinion; servants were invisible.

“That’s enough, Bella.”

The countess offered her lover a sultry smile. “Will you beat me if I don’t obey?”

“Of course not.”

He spoke with soft restraint but something in his tone apparently struck home, for the countess said with a complacent sigh, “Very well. You must always have your way.” She smiled. “For which I’ve been extremely grateful on any number of occasions my masterful darling.”

“Are you quite done?”

“I suppose I must be with you frowning so. Was Vicky pleased last night that you finally arrived?” She knew when to be accommodating, particularly with Jamie. While they shared a mutual pleasure, he wasn’t in the least enamored or adoring like so many of her lovers.

“Vicky was very pleasant,” he said, relieved Bella was finally minding her manners. “John’s a lucky man.”

“His wife is as well. You and your cousin share a certain charming expertise. I was surprised when he married.”

“He’s in love.”

“You don’t say. How quaint.”

“It happens.”

“But fortunately not to you”—she smiled—“or me.”

“Could we talk about something else?”
Or not talk at all?

“Of course, darling. Did you hear that Georgie Tolliver left his wife for his children’s governess? Isn’t that droll?” At which point, Bella lapsed into a gossipy discussion of their various acquaintances who were involved in affairs of one kind or another—the favorite amusement of the aristocracy.

Sliding down on his spine, his eyes half shut, Jamie replied in a desultory fashion to her comments. He was tired, two days of fucking and little sleep had taken its toll.

Bella seemed not to notice, absorbed as she was in her frivolous recital, or perhaps she was simply content to have Jamie near.

It was like watching a bored animal,
Sofia thought as she captured the countess’s pretty features on the canvas, Countess Minton’s lover politely biding his time, listening with half an ear to the countess’s chatter, appearing to doze off on occasion. Although, apparently, he didn’t, for he always managed to respond when required. Politely. With a cultivated civility at variance with his lassitude. He’d open his eyes and answer even the most banal queries with good humor.

The conservatory arm chairs were gilded faux bamboo, the attenuated metal dangerously light for a man his size.