Candice Hern by Lady Be Bad

arousing.
    For a brief moment before she'd come to her senses, pushing at him like an avenging fury, Rochdale had discovered the passionate woman beneath the prim exterior. Even if there had been no wager, he'd be eager to unleash that passion. He doubted the old bishop had provided her with an outlet. The poor woman probably had years of untapped passion bottled up inside and ready to explode. And, by God, he would be there when it happened.
    Afterward, he would collect his fine new gelding from Sheane and be on his way.
    In the meantime, though, he would take things slowly. She was skittish. This business of seduction was too new to her. She had to become accustomed to the idea, so he would not rush her. He would take his time, and he would enjoy every minute of it.
    Rochdale dismounted in front of Grace's house. Portland Place was a broad boulevard, the broadest in London, and not conducive to an army of street urchins ready to hold one's horse for a coin. Fortunately, the entire length was lined with an ironwork fence, so he simply secured the reins to it. He crooned in the horse's ear to assure her he would not be long, and opened the gate.
    Rochdale had done his research and knew that Bishop Marlowe had left his widow a tidy fortune. Marlowe had come from a wealthy family, and had made more money in a year as Bishop of London than many people would earn in a lifetime. The children from his first marriage had inherited a great deal of property. His widow had been left this grand house on Portland Place as well as enough cash and investments to keep her comfortable for the rest of her life. Grace Marlowe was a rich woman, and her home reflected her wealth.
    He straightened his coat, tugged down his waistcoat, and rang the bell. A pretty red-haired maid in starched apron and cap opened the door. He flashed the smile that had won the trust of many a housemaid and said, "Lord Rochdale to see Mrs. Marlowe." He handed her his card.
    "My lord," she said, and bobbed a curtsy. Her eyes had grown wide and she looked flustered. No doubt she knew his name. His reputation would be well known even among the servant class, who were generally bigger gossips than their employers.
    Since she seemed reluctant to let him in, he said, "She is expecting me," and stepped past her into the entry hall.
    Rochdale glanced about him with approval. Most of the homes on Portland Place had been built by Robert Adam in the last century, and this house appeared to have been decorated by him as well. Or at least in his style. All was classical coolness in pale blues, mint greens, and soft grays with cream-colored ornament. The plasterwork ceiling was magnificent. The room might have been designed with Grace in mind, the coloring and refinement of decoration were so perfectly suited to her. Like a delicate Sèvres bonbonnière to hold Grace, the sweetmeat, inside. Through a screen of columns at the far end of the hall he could see a staircase, but the housemaid indicated a different direction.
    "If you will wait in here, my lord, I will see if Madam is in."
    She led him into a small anteroom off the hall, clearly meant for uninvited visitors or tradesmen. Rochdale didn't mind the slight. He was in Grace's house, prepared to collect his kiss and further chip away at her resolve — one more step toward winning Sheane's gelding, and that was all that mattered. The maid bobbed another curtsy and left him alone.
    Afternoon sunlight poured in from the two windows facing Portland Place, picking out bits of gilt in the ceiling and over-door decoration and in the moldings. A fine landscape — a Ruisdael, if he was not mistaken — was given pride of place over a marble fireplace, and several smaller paintings were hung on the wall opposite the windows. It was an elegant room. Even the few pieces of furniture were of good quality. If such care was given to a small anteroom that was probably seldom used, he could only imagine what the rest of the house was