“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 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.”