He and John had lived on the Continent for nearly all of Gabriel's twenty-seven years, having returned to London only two years earlier. They'd spent most of their time in southern Italy, with brief stays in Paris, Vienna, Madrid, and other exotic cities. Gabriel considered Italy to be home, but despite me mishaps that had originally sent John fleeing into exile, he hadn't ever had the heart to sever the strong ties that bound him to England.
He still harbored an intense, incomprehensible interest in the affairs of the British aristocracy, and he carefully followed their machinations. With the dedication of a mother guiding a daughter into the marriage market, he was acutely aware of the current position of every member of high society.
"Yes."
"Have you settled on your next mark?"
"Mark
is such a harsh term, Father, don't you agree? I wish you wouldn't use it." He only took what a woman voluntarily proposed, and he would never accept more than she could afford to give.
"Well, I wouldn't be foolish enough to refer to her as a
client"
"I guess that wouldn't be apropos, either."
'Tell me, who's the lucky girl?"
Gabriel twirled his liquor, vividly recalling the fabulous brunette he'd accosted in the theater lobby. "I shall follow your recommendation. Lady Elizabeth Harcourt."
"Norwich's daughter," John remarked pensively, the very name inducing a swirl of reminiscence. He tipped his drink in a mock toast. "An excellent choice."
"With your stellar endorsement, how could I have selected anyone else?"
"If she's anything like her mother, you'll have a delightful experience."
"I imagine so."
John and the Earl of Norwich had a sordid history that John had never deigned to relate. Gabriel wasn't cognizant of the gory details but, as with most of his father's peccadilloes, their feud had something to do with the earl's long-deceased first wife. Most likely, they'd had an abbreviated affair that the earl had exposed but, in his odd fashion, John had his standards. He would only have engaged in such a relationship for what he would have viewed as lofty motives—that being the woman's wretched unhappiness.
For all John's boasting as to how, as a youth, he'd enthusiastically abandoned his elite familial position, at heart he was the consummate gentleman. He never could countenance the tiniest slight, which repeatedly pushed him into all sorts of unsavory predicaments. He cared about women and couldn't stand to see them disconsolate or tormented, and if the earl had abused his wife, John would have interceded, and though it was three decades later, he would still enjoy the chance to extract some petty revenge.
"You saw her?" John was much more curious than he should have been.
"Si.
And spoke with her at length."
"Is she a beauty?"
"Exquisite." Gabriel recalled how he'd whispered the observation in her ear, and how fervently he'd meant it.
A classic female, she'd had a heart-shaped face, dainty chin, high cheekbones, curved brows, and pert nose. Her bounteous, pouting lips were her best feature. She had a mouth that instantly drew a man beyond the notion of kissing, one that made him remember why he paid for costly mistresses or visited high-priced whores. Hers was a mouth that oughtn't be wasted on talking, not when mere were so many more delicious pursuits to which it could be put.
Her hair was also particularly outstanding. Those luxurious auburn locks had been swept up in the modern style, hut the ringlets dangling across her shoulder had provided abundant evidence of the thickness, of the various hues. To describe her hair as brown was inaccurate; it was brown, with red and gold highlights sprinkled throughout.
The English women he seduced were boring, ordinary, lair, and pale, their traits washed out by generations of immaculate breeding until there was little that was unique. Oh, to stumble upon such a stunning original! He was eager to commence. With painting and more!
Her incredible body, so well developed and lush, was precisely the type he favored. The fabric of her gown had shielded much of her form, but he had a vivid imagination, and he could graphically picture long, sexy legs, curvaceous thighs, perfectly developed breasts.
The lacing of her corset had answered any questions as to whether or not she was liberally endowed. No padding or false weights had been implanted to increase apparent size. The two spectacular mounds had been firmly lifted, granting him an unrestricted vista of their munificence, and leaving no dispute as to the womanly contours of her figure.
He was impatient to see her in her full, naked glory. She would be a feast for the eyes—and hopefully for the hands and the mouth.
At the contemplation of her delectable charms, he felt the giddy rush that persistently overwhelmed him when he was about to initiate a new conquest. There was no finer pleasure to be had—not even from his painting—than the exhilaration he endured during those fantastic days of a burgeoning affair.
"You said she has twenty-seven years," he mentioned.
"By my calculations, yes."
“Why do you suppose her father never married her off?”
"Because he's an ass."
For John, that was sufficient explanation, but Gabriel probed anyway. "Might you expound a bit?"
"No, but once you're acquainted with her, you'll see what I mean." John rose and meandered to the sideboard, depositing his dirtied glass for the maid to deal with in the morning. "When would you predict she'll arrive to make inquiries about an appointment?"
Gabriel recalled the blush on her cheeks, her initial caution, then the unfolding curiosity. With delight and candor, she'd assessed his every move, until by the conclusion, they'd established an affinity, a bond. When he'd espied Helen in the crowd and departed from Lady Elizabeth's presence, he'd sensed that he could have brazenly kissed her without much opposition.
Her defenses were low; her melancholy high. She was so ready for a change!
"I imagine she'll be around in two or three days."
"That soon?"
"Without a doubt," Gabriel answered confidently, and where women were concerned, he was rarely wrong.
Elizabeth sat at her vanity, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She couldn't have said how long she'd dawdled, studying her features, checking for perfection and flaws, and finding mostly the latter.
With a resigned sigh, she shook her head at her whimsicality, marveling at her sudden engrossment with her looks. Not since she'd been an adolescent, and such frivolous things had mattered, had she tried so hard to impartially judge her characteristics: winsome face, clear skin, bright eyes. Her hair was too dark, though, an oddity she'd hated when she was young and striving not to stick out while drowning in a swarm of blond girls.
While she was customarily meticulous as to her daily appearance, she never bothered over the assemblage of her physical traits, but since her encounter with Gabriel Cristofore, she'd developed a heightened interest in elusive detail.
What specifically had he seen that had spurred him to her side with words of flattery and adulation?
A secret thrill coursed through her. The flood of compliments he'd bestowed had given her enormous pleasure. She was allowed a small speck of vanity, wasn't she? She had never been courted, had seldom been noticed by members of the opposite sex, so there was something absurdly phenomenal about being singled out by such a handsome man.
His breathtaking approach had stirred her in more ways than she cared to acknowledge. The twisted covers on her bed provided significant evidence of how she'd tossed and turned throughout the night, reviewing every comment he'd expressed, every response she'd uttered.
Naturally, she hadn't been able to stop thinking about the woman to whom he'd been making love. Though it was improper for her to have watched, she wasn't sorry that she had. Her indiscretion had opened up an entirely new world. She felt as if she'd peeked behind a forbidden curtain— which, in effect, she had—and that, as a result, she would never be the same.
She couldn't prevent herself from ruminating over Mr. Cristofore and what it would be like to be me object of his amatory attention. Previously, she'd never wasted time brooding on the more private side of male-female relations, but now, having been totally immersed in the erotic scene, she couldn't reflect upon anything else.
Clearly, there was a lusty facet to her disposition, because she'd become integrally absorbed by lewd deliberation. Her body was aching and restless, while her mind was preoccupied with indecency. She kept reliving—over and over and over again! —That moment when Mr. Cristofore had huddled before his paramour and suckled at her breast.
The recollection caused a whoosh of heat to sweep up her front. Her nipples extended, her breathing became labored, her cheeks burned, and she lingered there, alone in her dressing room, fanning herself against the abrupt elevation in temperature.
What if she had been the woman with Gabriel Cristofore? After witnessing his ribald antics, she was obsessed with knowing more, and she liberally fantasized over the possibilities, and she couldn't cease her musings.
You could call on him to set up a portrait interview,
a tiny voice urged, and she blushed just from pondering the wicked idea. The card he'd pressed into her hand was balanced against the mirror, and she evaluated it intently, searching for any clue it might furnish about the man and his motives.
Unfortunately, she gleaned no clues, and the longer she dwelled upon him, the more she realized that such an insolent libertine was out of her league. She'd never have the courage to visit his studio. And as for requesting that he paint her! The concept was preposterous! Such forward conduct was the epitome of faulty moral comportment.
Yet, it was amusing to conjecture and fantasize. No one was hurt by her wayward meditation, and she thoroughly enjoyed daydreaming about being adventurous and bold. In her current state of doldrums, any diversion was welcome—even a far-fetched, romantic reverie.
A clock chimed down the hall, compelling her to heed that afternoon was upon her, but she was loitering in her room. She'd been up for hours, but she couldn't force herself to go downstairs. A strange lethargy had recently overtaken her, and nothing seemed important, especially not her mundane schedule.
Normally, she'd have risen with the servants, would have been dressed and ready for a busy day when her father appeared at the breakfast table. They had habitually begun their mornings in conference, confirming plans, comparing engagements and calendars, before the earl departed, but now, she couldn't constrain herself to face him, and there was no reason to, really. She had no duties to discuss with him and, she had to admit, he was not the most affable mealtime companion.
Since his marriage to Charlotte, he was surly and cantankerous and, of course, breakfast was generally a disaster, due to Charlotte’s histrionics that had her steadily firing the kitchen help. They'd had such a turnover in employees that Elizabeth didn't know the names of many of their retainers, but then—as Charlotte faithfully reminded her—the composition of the staff was no longer her problem.
She was tired of fashioning excuses meant to explain to the earl why the food was horrendous, the service poor, so she'd stopped trying. With his usual disinterest in household proceedings, he refused to listen regardless, so justifications were a waste of energy.
Commotion issued from down the hall, and she hesitated, homing in on the direction from which it was emanating. Charlotte's screeching was definitely evident, but the other person was retorting quietly, so Elizabeth couldn't distinguish who was suffering the lash of Charlotte's sharp tongue. A platter crashed to the floor with a loud bang, and Elizabeth wearily rose to her feet, cursing the fact that her only enduring domestic role was to act as referee between her caustic stepmother and those retainers who had been loyal enough to stay on despite the chaos.
A second thunderous explosion had her scurrying to the location of the discord. She glided to the door of Charlotte's suite just as a spoon flew out, bounced off the far wall, and clattered onto the carpet. Pausing, she eavesdropped and assessed the volatile situation, as Charlotte scolded someone.
"I've told you a hundred times how I want my eggs cooked!"
"Aye, you have, milady," Mary Smith, head housekeeper and Elizabeth's good friend, replied evenly, "but as we are on our third cook in as many months—"
"Shut up!" Charlotte shouted. "I've given you sufficient warning. You're fired."
The announcement flowed out so often and so smoothly that Elizabeth was beginning to suspect the vicious girl stood in front of the mirror and practiced it.
"As you wish."
Mary's inflection showed no inkling of emotion at having been discharged from a position she'd held for twenty years, and Elizabeth was livid as she stormed into the room.
"She's not fired!"
"Don't interfere, Elizabeth!" Charlotte warned.
"I am!" Elizabeth countered just as harshly as she advanced on the bed where Charlotte lounged like a pampered queen with piles of pillows fluffed behind her back. "You've gone too far."
Swathed in an expensive robe, Charlotte trembled with affront, her hair hilariously flopping from side to side, wrapped as it was in curling rags. The tray that had been poised on her lap was on the floor, the utensils, plates, and glassware scattered about, the spoiled food soaking into and staining a priceless rug.