Gorgeous As Sin

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 mйnage а 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