Gorgeous As Sin

Chapter 18

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.

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 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 against a charming smile. “So I suggest you save your seductive skills for someone more susceptible.”

“What if I said this isn’t about your store? ”

“Then I’d say you’re a bloody liar.”

He grinned. “I’d still try to talk you into bed.”

“So subtle, Groveland. It makes me quite giddy.”

“Fitz.”

“Groveland.”

He smiled. “You really do fascinate me.”

“While you simply irritate me,” she briskly replied, not exactly truthfully, but opting for prudence in this unpromising relationship. “Kindly have your man take me home.”

“In due time,” he calmly said.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I’ll take you home later.”

“For your information, it’s 1891, not the Dark Ages when abductions were just another adjunct to male dominance. Women have rights now, we are no longer chattel, we are equals,” she hotly contended even though she knew better. She was making a point. “What you’re doing is completely outrageous and you know it!”

“You’re quite safe.” His voice in contrast was mild.

“From sex with you?” she shot back. “I doubt it. And for the record, I’m refusing your rude advances.”

“Just talk to me then.”

“About what pray tell? We have nothing in common.”

He smiled. “Allow me to disagree.”

“Sex is sex. It’s not conversation.”

“But pleasant nonetheless.”

“I’m sure there are any number of women who would be more than willing to pleasure you. Acquit me, Groveland, from such endeavors. Now, are you taking me home? ”

“No. Tell me, what do you think of Mother?”

She stared at him, the waning light of the sun shining through the carriage windows casting flickering shadows over his stark features. “Are you drunk?” Both his blunt refusal and his abrupt conversational shift were disconcerting.

“No. I’m perfectly sober. Be frank. About Mother,” he said as if they were dinner table companions sharing a bit of common gossip.

“Good God,” she retorted, agitatedly touching one of the brooches fastening her gown as she recalled the duchess’s morning visit and the motive for it. “What do you want me to say?”

“Say anything you like.” Although it took more than a modicum of restraint to answer blandly when he was mentally unclasping that brooch.

“Very well. Is it normal for your mother to inspect your…” She paused, unsure of what to call herself.

He looked amused. “Lovers? No, not ordinarily.”

She hesitated, not sure she wished to be interrogated, even less sure that she should speak her mind about his mother.

“Tell me what Mother said?” he prompted, wanting her to relax, enjoying the sight and sound of her, and ultimately, of course, waiting to fuck her.

Rosalind sighed. “If you must know, your mother said you were sullen at breakfast and she thought I might have had something to do with it.”

His brows rose. “Perceptive of her. I was pissed.”

“Don’t even start with the reason why. I have no intention of selling my store to you.”

He thought of the men probably searching her apartment even as they spoke. He should have felt some guilt. Instead, he felt only lust. “I won’t say another word about your store,” he offered. First things first. After he was done fucking her, time enough to consider business matters. “I feel, too, I should apologize for Mother. She interferes in my life on occasion.”

“Are you an only child? ”

He nodded. “And you? ”

“I have an older brother.”

“Here? ”

“No, in Yorkshire. He’s a solicitor.”

So her family wasn’t averse to trade. There were those in the gentry that were, no matter their poverty. “Is he married? ”

She gave him a narrowed look. “Why do you ask? ”

“No reason. I was just making conversation.”

“While you’re in the act of abducting me,” she sardonically remarked, pointing at the open window. “I see we’ve left the city.”

“I thought you might enjoy my villa on the Thames. It’s not far.”

“I have no intention of enjoying your villa on the Thames.”

The faintest of smiles graced his fine mouth. “I wonder if it’s your outspokenness that appeals to me most.”

“Please, Groveland, the only thing that appeals to you is sex.”

“How do you know after only one night? ”

“Let’s just say I’m a fast learner.”

“You are.”

“Am I supposed to say thank you? ”

“On the contrary, I should thank you.”

“This might be an opportune time to mention I’m not in the mood for sex tonight. I was quite sore this morning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not entirely your fault. I could have said no. But there you have it, so you might as well tell your driver to turn around. I’m sure you don’t want to waste your time.”

While her disclosure somewhat altered his plans, he still preferred she not return to her store until later in the evening. And keep in mind, the lustful voice inside his head asserted, she may yet change her mind about having sex. “It’s not dark yet. We can sit by the river and watch the sun go down. Have some champagne. You can tell me about your family.”

“Call me suspicious, but why would you care about my family? ”

He shrugged. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t. But I like the sound of your voice. I like to look at you.” His smile was well-bred, his deep voice bland, his keen gaze in contrast, that of a connoisseur contemplating his newest prize. “I like your jasmine perfume.”

“And you’d like to have sex with me.”

“Of course I would. But I won’t.”

“So obliging and benevolent.” Sarcasm in every syllable.

He laughed. “You’re a cynic.”

“A realist.”

“Same thing.” He smiled. “Although I know what you mean. I’m a cynic, too.”

“Charming as you are,” she said with sweet mockery, “this spiriting me away is useless. I’m not going to have sex with you, and you don’t really want to talk to me about my family. So maybe I should scream and call out for help from your driver. Would he come to my rescue? ”

“You could try.”

“What does that mean? ”

He shrugged. “No one’s ever screamed for help before. I have no idea what Ogilvy would do.”

“You arrogant ass.”

“Sorry. I may not be completely sober. Also, you’re a totally new experience for me.”

“A woman who says no, you mean.”

“Only at first, if I recall,” he pleasantly replied.

Maybe it was his insouciance that was most annoying or his unconscious arrogance, or the way he shamelessly assumed no woman could resist him. Which latter fact might also pertain to her but was nevertheless irritating.

Whatever the cause, she came up out of the seat in a swift lunging attack and slapped his smug face. Hard. Instantly mortified, shocked at her childish actions, she dropped back into her seat, flushing in embarrassment.

He took no notice, other than to growl, “Christ, watch it. You almost took out my eye.”

A distinct casualness underlay his words, and she wondered at a man who could be so imperturbable under duress. She shouldn’t have found it admirable. She certainly shouldn’t have remembered how he’d growled last night in the explosive throes of passion, or how he’d groaned deep in his throat as he climaxed.

How his hard muscles flexed under her hands as he made love to her with virtuoso skill and brought her to screaming orgasm.

Oh God-what was she doing?

She was going straight to hell if she continued this train of thought.

It took her a moment to restrain her wayward passions and a moment more to be able to speak in a normal tone. “I’m so very sorry. Ordinarily, I would never even think of slapping anyone.” She exhaled softly. “You provoke me in any number of ways. Admit, what you are doing is not business as usual for most people.”

He chose not to further offend her by saying he did as he pleased because he wasn’t most people. “You’re right. I’m sorry as well. It’s been an odd evening. Too many people perhaps,” he said, deliberately neglecting specifics like Clarissa and Flora’s irritating skirmish and Harry’s interference. “I’ll make a bargain with you. Come with me to my villa and I promise to play the role of Lancelot if you like-pure of heart and saintly.”

“Why should I trust you? ”

His lashes drifted lower and he surveyed her with his cool grey gaze. “The scandal sheets aside, I rarely lie.” He smiled. “With the exception of the occasional perjury in the heat of passion. Since we have agreed to dispense with passion tonight, the unromantic truth will hold sway.”

Why was she suddenly chagrined?

He was offering her what any self-respecting woman would want. Conversation, pleasant company, a strict propriety. Why was she disappointed?

“You mean it? ” An ambiguous query like her equivocal state of mind.

“Word of honor,” he easily replied, knowing he had qualified his offer with the phrase if you like.

She smiled. “A glass of champagne sounds very nice.”

Her smile warmed his heart, a shocking revelation he quickly brushed aside. Reverting to type, he pleasantly said, “When the moon comes up over the river, the scene is quite magical.” He grinned. “And I’m not prone to whimsy. It’s just picturesque I suppose-the gently flowing river, the moonlight filtered through the willows, an all-encompassing peace. Unlike the city.”

“I do have to be home before midnight in order to open the store on time.”

“Whatever you say,” he amiably replied. “And thank you. I appreciate your company.” He actually meant it, the difference between Mrs. St. Vincent and Clarissa or Flora profound. It made him wonder if his prodigality would have been better served outside the world of the beau monde.

He certainly couldn’t accuse Mrs. St. Vincent of the sameness that characterized all the women of fashion he knew.