Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

“Very well. No more talk of Groveland,” Sofia tactfully agreed. “Did I tell you Arthur is taking me to an exhibit at the National Gallery tonight?” The drama of Rosalind and Groveland would unfold all in good time, Sofia decided. She had but to sit back and wait for the curtain to rise.

“How nice. Which exhibit?”

“The Turner watercolors. You should come with us since you’re forever drooling over Turner’s work.”

Rosalind thought for a moment. “Maybe I will.”

“So you say, but you never actually do,” Sofia retorted. “Why not come this time? We’re going to visit some friend of Arthur’s afterward. He’s an up-and-coming architect with a new house in Holland Park. Modest, but in the newest style, Arthur says. You might even meet some nice man there. Someone exactly opposite of Groveland.”

When in the past Rosalind would have refused the invitation, she suddenly felt the need for some alternative to the potent memories of last night still roiling her brain. Despite her repudiation, she was finding it difficult to forget Groveland and the pleasure he so charmingly dispensed. “I will go with you this time,” she said decisively. “What are you wearing?”

“One of Glynis’s gowns. Wear the saffron silk she made for you. It’s wonderful with your hair.” Sofia smiled. “I’m glad you’re coming with us. Should Arthur bring an escort for you?”

“No, no, please,” Rosalind quickly replied, putting up her hand as further deterrent. “I just want to enjoy the show. I’m not in the mood to be entertaining.”

But all the talk of Groveland had set her creative juices flowing, and after Sofia left, she sat in a comfortable chair near the window and quickly filled fifteen pages of her notebook with the opening scene of a new series.

In her excitement over the new story that was practically writing itself, Rosalind closed the store for ten minutes during a lull in the afternoon and ran the first chapter over to Mr. Edding.

After nervously waiting for a customer to leave his shop, she dropped her pages on the counter and said with a degree of agitation, “I can’t wait. I locked up my shop to dash over here. It’s the first chapter of my new series, The Duke’s Doxy.”

“Capital! We go to press tonight so it’s very opportune! Wait, wait, let me pay you,” he quickly added as Rosalind made for the door. Swiftly counting out the bills, Mr. Edding slipped them into an envelope and slid it across the counter.

A moment later, he watched Mrs. St. Vincent rush away and began mentally estimating the profits he’d realize from a second series by his very popular new author.

The moment the store closed for the day, Mr. Edding saw that Rosalind’s first chapter was delivered to the printer in the East End.

It would be hot off the presses and on sale in the morning.

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.

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.