Gorgeous As Sin

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.”

“Do forgive me, Mrs. St. Vincent”-he held her gaze for an overlong moment-“for offending your sense of propriety. I didn’t realize you had such a fastidious sense of decorum.” The mockery in his voice was only thinly veiled.

“You bastard,” she muttered. “Go to bloody hell.” Without regard for Sofia and Arthur’s shocked looks, nor for others in the vicinity who were raptly listening, Rosalind spun around and stalked off.

“It was a pleasure to see you again,” Fitz murmured, following Rosalind with his gaze. “Don’t worry about Mrs. St. Vincent. I’ll see that she gets home.”

Trailing Rosalind’s haughty retreat, he caught sight of his mother as he was nearing the door and nodded to her in passing.

Having seen Mrs. St. Vincent stalk by only seconds before, Julia understood that she would have to find a hansom cab for herself and Flora. Unless the young lady found another escort to see her home-which was not at all unlikely.

Wishing to avoid a skirmish in the gallery, Fitz chose not to overtake Rosalind until she reached the outside portico. When she paused at the top of the stairs, he quickly closed the distance between them and seized her wrist-a trifle roughly perhaps. But awareness of his overharsh grip didn’t in the end move him to moderate it.

“Unhand me, you beast!” Rosalind hissed, trying to pull free without attracting the notice of visitors streaming past.

“I just want to talk to you,” he returned, keeping his voice low.

“Go talk to your two little blondes,” she caustically returned, skewering him with her flame-hot gaze. “They looked more than interested. I’m not!”

“If I wanted to talk to them, I’d be talking to them,” he muttered, beginning to move down the stairs, annoyed that she was annoyed. Annoyed that she wasn’t being reasonable. Refusing to address his rash actions in driving Harry off or the fact that only Mrs. St. Vincent would do tonight when he’d never been particular before. Sex had always just been about sex. Damn her.

“For God’s sake, Groveland…what do you think you’re doing? Stop this insanity!” Rosalind tried to dig in her heels, but the soles of her sandals were slipping on the marble stairs polished smooth over decades of use. “Stop! Do you hear? Stop this instant!” She might have been talking to herself for all the good it did. Fitz neither responded nor looked back on his full-tilt downward progress.

People on their way up stared or cast furtive glances their way, but on meeting the duke’s basilisk gaze, they quickly looked away.

“Damn you, I’ll scream! I’ll scream to high heaven!” Rosalind panted, stumbling in an effort to keep up with his headlong pace.

“Scream all you want.”

The indifference in his voice was stunning. In the midst of a crowd, she thought, he didn’t care what anyone thought. Including her. Before she could further contemplate his iniquities, they reached the bottom of the stairs and in an additional act of madness, he swept her up in his arms and strode like a man possessed toward the line of carriages parked at the curb.

Embarrassed at the tawdry spectacle, she buried her face in his shoulder, hoping no one she knew had seen her, praying most that they’d soon be away from all the curious eyes.

The drivers lounging beside the carriages stared open-mouthed as Fitz strode past, aware that they were witnessing a bona fide abduction-a highly unusual event in the modern era. Not that anyone intervened.

Fitz came to an abrupt stop when he reached his carriage. “Put the top up, Ogilvy, then Mertenside.” Tossing Rosalind over the side of the landau with precise aim if not courtesy, he jerked open the half door, climbed in, and dropped into the seat opposite her.

“You won’t get away with this flagrant abuse,” Rosalind sputtered angrily, bristling as she struggled into a seated position. “I’ll have you arrested for kidnapping,” she threatened, jerking her skirts down over her legs, straightening her decolletage, trying to distance herself within the narrow confines of the carriage. She briefly wondered if there was a chance of outrunning him, but quickly realized there wasn’t. Even if she could escape the carriage, which was doubtful with Groveland only a few feet away, she could no more outrun him than she could outdistance a racehorse. “I could have you arrested for rape,” she muttered, sulky and bitter.

Fitz shot her a startled look, then turned to help Ogilvy secure the leather carriage top. Only when the last snap and buckle was fastened and the carriage was moving did he sit back and address her. “You and I both know it wasn’t rape,” he said.

She had the good grace to blush. “It could have been.”

He smiled. “Perhaps, if you hadn’t kept saying, Please, just once more.”

She sniffed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“As you like,” he calmly replied, sliding into a lounging pose, stretching out his legs, content now that he had what he wanted. “I would like to talk to you about something else, though.” Experience had taught Fitz that women liked to talk more than they liked flattery and kisses; conversation was always effective as foreplay.

“Right. And I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

“Maybe not Sheba,” he said with a raking glance and a wicked smile. “But Venus certainly. You wear the most amazing gowns. Who’s your dressmaker?”

“I’m poor, Groveland,” she crisply retorted. “People like me don’t have dressmakers.”

“Nevertheless, someone made that frock. It’s quite lovely. Not that the body underneath isn’t even more lovely.”

She gave him a flinty look. “Save your suave charm for your doxies. I’m not interested.”

“You seemed interested last night.”

“Everyone makes mistakes from time to time. You were mine.”

His lazy smile warmed his eyes. “Perhaps I could change your mind.”

“I’m not selling my store,” she firmly declared, sitting up straighter as though good posture was defense