Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

“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.

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.