Gorgeous as Sin (14 page)

Chapter 17

YOU’RE FINALLY BACK,” Julia said, walking into Fitz’s dressing room without knocking shortly after seven. “I need you to change your plans, darling. Kemal has deserted me.”

“You
could
knock, Mother,” Fitz drawled, taking his shirt from Darby and waving him out.

“Pshaw! As if I haven’t seen you half-naked before.” Dropping into a chair in a swish of green silk skirts, the duchess smiled at her son, dressed only in trousers. “I won’t require your escort for long, darling. An hour or so early in the evening. Kemal had promised to take me to the Turner exhibit, but then some tiresome diplomatic crisis came up.” She waved her hand dismissively. “In any case, I’m off to Bunny’s dinner afterward—don’t scowl . . . I’m not asking you to accompany me to that event. So you see it’s nothing more than a little slice of your time this evening. That won’t be so bad, will it?” she cheerfully finished.

“It won’t be bad at all,” Fitz said, sliding one arm into a shirtsleeve. “I’m going anyway.”

“With whom? Do I know her?” Julia rightly assumed he was escorting a woman.

“No. She’s one of Leighton’s models.” Slipping the shirt over his head, he began fastening the studs on the shirtfront.

“Well, I shan’t ruin her evening for long.”

Fitz smiled. “You won’t ruin her evening at all, Mother. She’ll be thrilled to be seen in your company.”

“How sweet.” The duchess raised her brows. “Does she speak the Queen’s English?”

“Yes, Mother. She speaks very well and has excellent manners. Her father is a notable surgeon.”

“And yet she takes her clothes off for Leighton.”

“For art, Mother. There’s a difference, I’m told,” he drolly added.

“Come to think of it, Constance Radford has taken her clothes off in public for much less reason.”

“On more than one occasion,” Fitz sardonically noted.

“Indeed,” Julia agreed. “And you needn’t worry, I shall be ever so polite to your little model.”

“I wasn’t worried.” He began tucking his shirt into his trousers.

“Because I’m always cordial to your lady friends,” Julia said with a twinkle in her eye.

He looked up. “As I am to Kemal, Mother.”

She came to her feet, not about to rehash a discussion they had agreed to disagree on long ago. “What time is the carriage coming round?”

“Half past seven. Flora wanted to see the watercolors in natural light.”

“Then I must hurry,” Julia declared, moving toward the door.

“If you like, we could come back for you.”

“No, no, I can dress in a flash.” She opened the door. “I’ll be downstairs at half past.”

Darby reentered the room as the duchess exited and took Fitz’s coat from the armoire. “I expect we’ll see you in the mornin’,” he said, waiting while Fitz slid his white, embroidered suspenders over his shoulders.

“I assume so.”

“Some of your Turners are on display tonight as I recall.”

“Three or four. The Swiss landscapes.”

“It looks to be a right fine evenin’ to be out. Positively balmy it is.”

“A perfect night for a carriage ride with the top down.”

“Would you be wantin’ some champagne to take along?”

“Flora has friends coming over to her place in Chelsea. I think she already ordered what she needed.”

“Lady Buckley rung up this afternoon, Stanley said. Did you hear?”

“He told me.” After which Fitz had given Stanley instructions to have a note and a small gift delivered, with his regrets, to Miss Baldwin at the Savoy.

Darby didn’t inquire further; he’d done his duty. From Fitz’s reply it appeared he wasn’t planning on responding to Clarissa’s call. During the remaining time it took for Fitz to dress for the evening, the men spoke instead of their upcoming hunting trip.

At seven twenty-five Fitz descended the main staircase. He was waiting in the entrance hall when his mother arrived breathless and flushed fifteen minutes later.

“Sorry, darling. Clara had trouble with my hair.”

“It’s not a problem.” He smiled as he held out his arm for his mother. “We haven’t gone out together for months. I’m looking forward to the evening.”

She patted his arm. “You’re such a sweet boy.”

“It must be because I take after you,” he said with a grin.

She chuckled. “I’m sure that’s the case.”

 

 

ROSALIND WAS HARRIED as well in her dressing, but not because her maid was having trouble with her hair. First, she didn’t have a maid, and second, her hair was piled on top of her head in its usual casual disarray. What
had
disrupted her schedule was a customer arriving as the store was closing.

Mrs. Greening was an excellent client so Rosalind couldn’t simply shoo her away much as she would have liked to. Instead, she’d been obliged to cater to the dithering woman’s many whims until she’d finally selected the books she wanted for her trip to the seashore.

Then when she’d arrived upstairs, she’d been faced with a bedroom awash in soiled towels, not to mention the tie and underwear Fitz had left behind. The towels had gone in the laundry basket, the tie and underwear in the trash, although she hadn’t had time to change the sheets on the bed. Now she’d have to look at the scene of her trist on her return when she would have much preferred forgetting everything that had happened last night.

Fortunately, Rosalind’s saffron silk was a Grecian-style silk muslin that was simple to don. She had but to drape it around her body, fasten the shoulders with the pretty little enameled brooches Glynis had made, tie the sumptuous purple silk sash around her waist, and her toilette was complete.

But she kept one eye on the time as she dressed, fretting at the fast-moving minute hand. Sofia and Arthur were coming to fetch her at seven and she didn’t want to be tardy.

The clock was striking seven when she heard Sofia’s hallo drift up the stairs.

“I’m ready!” she cried out, slipping her feet into gold leather Grecian sandals Glynnis had sent over along with the gown. Glynnis was both a friend and an artist who displayed her handmade designs in Rosalind’s gallery; the gown and slippers had been a thank-you gift.

Catching sight of her flushed face in a mirror as she dashed through the parlor, Rosalind vowed to sit quietly in the hansom cab on the way to the exhibit and hopefully appear less like a day laborer in from the fields by the time they reached the National Gallery.

Chapter 18

FITZ WAS FACING away from the door so he didn’t see Rosalind when she walked into the exhibit. Julia did, but knowing Fitz wouldn’t appreciate her interference, she turned her attention back to her companions. Inspired by Turner’s glowing watercolors of Venice, Flora had been going on at some length on the topic of her family’s recent visit there.

The Turner exhibit was mounted in the West Room of the National Gallery where many of Turner’s paintings were permanently on display. It was a modest-size space, and crowded. In fact, it was a crush.

Under the circumstances, there was every possibility that Fitz and Rosalind wouldn’t encounter each other. Had not some young actress swooned—whether genuinely or for publicity—
and
had not the throng opened up around her, their eyes would not have met across the room.

Rosalind immediately turned away.

Fitz’s nostrils flared.
Infuriating woman
. But as Rosalind disappeared into the crowd, he smoothly replied to a query Flora had just posed. “The first time I saw Turner’s work was in Bristol. Remember, Mother, Paget was selling his uncle’s estate? That small Thames River scene was my first major purchase as a youth.”

“As if you’re old now, darling,” Flora purred, smiling up at him. “You’re in your absolute prime . . .”

“Indeed, Fitz, darling,” his mother agreed, looking amused. “You can’t be old because then I’d be old.”

“And you aren’t at all, Your Grace,” Flora gushed. “You don’t look a day over forty.”

Julia repressed a smile. “Thank you, my dear. How very sweet of you. Isn’t Miss Nesbit the dearest girl?” She shot Fitz a look of complete innocence.

“She certainly is,” he agreed, hoping his mother would behave.

Having been praised for her beauty from the cradle, Flora accepted the compliments not only as accurate and credible but also as her due. “And you’re the most
wonderful
man I know,” she said, fawning and fulsome, squeezing Fitz’s arm. Turning to Julia, she added with a sugary smile, “Fitz is a credit to your motherly gifts, Your Grace.”

“Would anyone like a glass of sherry?” Fitz interposed, hoping to curtail the unctuous flattery. “I know I would.”

Julia met her son’s gaze. “I don’t suppose they have brandy.”

“I’m sure they do.” He dipped his head to Flora. “And you, Miss Nesbit? ”

“A sherry would be excellent.”

“Fitz! Fitz! Over here! Over
here
!”

Fitz inwardly groaned, the voice familiar. Glancing in the direction of the cry, he spotted Clarissa pushing her way through the crowd.

Flora scowled.

The duchess smiled faintly. Two aggressive females in pursuit of one man
along with
a curious audience. It should be an interesting evening.

Moments later Clarissa arrived, flushed and smiling. Ignoring the women, she smiled at Fitz and breathlessly exclaimed, “How absolutely
delicious
to find you, darling, because I’m quite
alone
tonight!” Her emphasis on the word
alone
was accompanied by a flirtatious wink. “Lord Buckley is off again on some dreadful hunting trip. I declare, men are never content unless they’re shooting something.” Having made her availability abundantly clear, she uttered a soft little sigh and added fervently, “Don’t you just
adore
Turner’s work? I wouldn’t have missed this exhibit for the world.”

Such gross insincerity elicited a moment of stunned silence.

Flora was looking daggers at her rival.

Fitz was wondering how best to negotiate the dangerous waters.

Knowing full well her duty as a mother, Julia stepped into the breach. “Fitz, darling, why don’t you get us those sherries? I’ll entertain the ladies while you’re gone.”

Fitz shot his mother a grateful look.

“Now don’t forget my brandy,” she directed and waved him off. Having lived her entire life in the modish world where insincerity was an art form, Julia overlooked the palpable animus between the two women and offered Clarissa a gracious smile. “My dear Clarissa, you must hear about Miss Nesbit’s delightful family trip to Venice.” The duchess turned her bright smile on Flora. “My dear, explain to Lady Buckley how your father happened to acquire his amazing collection of medical instruments in that little shop near the Rialto.”

If not for the din from the crowd, it might have been possible to hear the ladies gnash their teeth.

“Now, I forget,” Julia prompted. “Did your father discover the origin of that very curious ancient scalpel was Arabia or Egypt?”

“Egypt,” Flora muttered, clearly not in the mood for conversation.

“Such an exotic locale!” Julia said enthusiastically. “The pyramids at twilight are quite breathtaking. Everyone says it of course, but it’s absolutely true! Weren’t you with Bunny’s party in Egypt last year, Clarissa dear?”

While his mother was offering him momentary deliverance from what could turn into a battle royal, Fitz escaped downstairs where a bar was always available at events such as this. In no great hurry to return to the volatile situation upstairs—Clarissa a loose canon under the best of conditions, the current ones clearly challenging—he ordered two large brandies.

Anesthesia, as it were, for the coming battle.

And perhaps to numb his brain as well. He was thinking too much about his brief glimpse of Mrs. St. Vincent. Which was profoundly useless.

So it was only natural he would have preferred not seeing Arthur Godwin come up to the bar a few minutes later. He was trying to forget last night, not be reminded of the lady’s tempestuous passions.

After exchanging greetings and a few polite words about the exhibit, Godwin ordered drinks—two sherries and a whiskey. Fitz shouldn’t have been mindful of the order, nor should he have turned and watched Godwin walk away. It was simple curiosity, he rationalized, nothing more.

Certainly, there was no earthly reason to follow the art critic.

There was even less reason for his pulse to spike when he saw to whom Godwin brought the sherries. There she was. He could see her through the doorway of the basement study room where Turner sketches were stored. Sofia was with her, and both women smiled as Godwin offered them the drinks.

He should have taken serious warning at the jolt of raw lust jarring his nerve endings. Instead, he was contemplating how easily he could undress Mrs. St. Vincent. All he had to do was unclasp the brooches at her shoulders, unwind the sash at her waist, and her gown would drop away.

She didn’t wear corsets, the fact obvious for all to see.

It would take less than a minute to divest her of her underclothes, and voila! She’d be available. And after last night, her willingness was not in question.

Not that reason didn’t immediately argue its case.
How can you even think about fucking her when you’re arranging her destruction? Have you no decency? No scruple or conscience?

Libidinous urges quickly countered.
She can say no if she doesn’t want sex. Consider, too, the ninety thousand you might lose. If you keep her away from her store tonight, Hutchinson’s men will have time to search the premises.

Moral issues aside, he was beset by a chafing resentment that the mere sight of her gave rise to an ungovernable need to mount her. He begrudged his urgent compulsion; in the past women had always been a pleasure but never an obsession.

And now Mrs. St. Vincent was threatening his laissez-faire existence.

A sensible man would forget he’d seen her, get the drinks for the women, and go back upstairs, his voice of reason advised. Furthermore, only a brute and a bounder would dally with a lady while in the act of ruining her.

A practical man at heart, Fitz ultimately came to his senses, turned away, and retraced his steps to the bar. Moments later, he was ascending the stairs, a flunkey following behind with a tray of drinks.

For the next half hour, Fitz parried the barbs flying fast and furious between Flora and Clarissa—a common enough situation for a man much sought after by women. In fact, by dint of considerable experience, his skills at accommodating overwrought females were finely honed. It also helped that he drank several more brandies—the flunkey had orders to keep his glass filled. When his mother decided to leave and join her friends, he was able to casually wave her off compliments of considerable brandy.

At this point, with the liquor warming his blood, he was pondering the merits of a ménage ŕ trois since neither woman seemed willing to cede the field to her rival. He was actually making such an offer when Rosalind walked back into his line of vision and his voice died away.

The subdued lighting or perhaps the dark paneled walls exaggerated the gleaming copper of her hair and the brilliant saffron of her gown. Her voluptuous form beneath the draped silk brought to mind paintings of a mythical Arcadia with enchantresses disposed in various provocative poses. Not that Rosalind was posing at the moment; rather, she was moving cautiously through the crowd, trying to keep her sherry from being jostled. And damned if Harry Moore wasn’t following in her wake—eyeing her like the lecher he was. “If you’ll excuse me,” Fitz murmured, hot with jealousy, every man she passed turning to stare as well. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Where are you going?” Flora sharply quizzed.

“I’ll go with you,” Clarissa said, more practiced and cunning.

“No, don’t.” Blunt as a hammer.

His curt retort gave even Clarissa pause.

Indifferent to the ladies’ sullen gazes, he strode away.

Scanning the crowd in the direction Rosalind had taken, Fitz searched for a glimmer of her auburn hair or Harry’s blond locks. Not that he was entirely sure what he’d do after he found her or Harry. The room was awash with other friends and acquaintances as well, not to mention his mother. Mrs. St. Vincent would likely discourage his advances. Numerous difficulties existed to complicate the situation.

None of which halted his swift advance.

Ah, there.
He spied the group in a far corner. Fortunately, they were well away from Flora and Clarissa. Although, driven by brute impulse, he wouldn’t have cared if they weren’t.

He smiled faintly.

Christ, he might have been a grass green youth so irrational was his behavior. Or more like a barbarian, he decided, recognizing what he was about to do. Fuck Harry—he was going to drag her off whether she liked it or not.

His manner was smoothly urbane when he greeted the small group. “Good evening.” He bowed gracefully. “Are you enjoying the show?”

“Yes, indeed.” Sofia smiled. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Arthur Godwin nodded. “Good evening again, Your Grace.”

Rosalind shot a look at Arthur, then dipped her head in Fitz’s direction, her expression chill.

“You’re a long way from the racetrack, Harry,” Fitz drawled.

“Didn’t know you were an art lover, Fitz.”

“I’m here with my mother, but I seem to have lost her,” Fitz blandly noted, his gaze turning to Rosalind.

He knows about his mother’s visit to my shop.
She refused to rise to the bait, especially after having watched him being fawned over by two beautiful blonde women who could have been a matched pair.
Just like him
, she pettishly thought.
Pretty, flighty blondes without a thought in their heads beyond vying for his favors.

“Turner’s work is magnificent, isn’t it?” Sofia interposed, hoping to avoid a brawl between the two men or possibly between Fitz and Rosalind, who was scowling grimly. “The colors, the atmosphere, the sheer technical proficiency. It quite takes your breath away.”

“Lot of messy paint if you ask me; can’t make out whether it’s a tree or boat over there. But the company more than makes up for the rubbishy art,” Harry murmured, smiling at Rosalind.

“The man’s a genius, Harry,” Fitz muttered.

“Not in my book. Stubbs—now there’s a genius. Could paint a horse so real you could touch it.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to go?” Fitz’s blunt, contentious words matched the scowl on his face.

“Lord Moore is entitled to his opinion, Groveland. Art is perception; no more, no less,” Rosalind said, offering Harry a charming smile.

“The lady agrees with me, Fitz,” Harry gloated, still rankled over having lost Clarissa to Fitz not long ago. “Don’t you think your mother’s missing you?”

“She isn’t, but I left Clarissa by the stairs. Buckley’s shooting again,” he cooly added.

“Is that a fact.”

“Yes it is. She’s with Flora. You remember her, don’t you?” Flora had come to a masquerade as Springtime several months ago and her costume had left little to the imagination.

“If you’ll excuse me, ladies, gentlemen.” Harry made his bows. “I believe I see my brother in the crowd.”

“Are you pimping now?” Rosalind snapped as Harry made a hasty exit.

“Rosalind, for heaven’s sake!” Sofia exclaimed.

“You would have found Harry a boor,” Fitz softly said, as if Sofia hadn’t spoken, his gaze for Rosalind alone.

“That’s not for you to decide,” Rosalind testily replied.

“Forgive me. Would you like me to call him back?”

“And if I said yes?”

A muscle in his jaw clenched, his gaze drifted from her eyes to her lush cleavage on display in the deep vee of her gown, and he said, silky smooth, “If that were the case, naturally I’d be happy to
accommodate
you in any way whatsoever.”

“For God’s sake, Groveland,” Rosalind snapped, her temper cracking under his brazen stare and the insinuation in his words that had nothing to do with Harry Moore. “You’d think you’d never seen breasts before!” How dare he strip her with his eyes in full view of the world; how dare he send Moore away!

Fitz looked up, his smile insolent. “I was admiring your gown.”

She glared at him. “Libertine.”