Sinful. Charlotte Featherstone
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keep his mouth shut. Broughton caught his scowl. The bastard actually grinned.
“Why don’t you give me a try, guv?” she purred, running her hand along his thigh. “I could be naughty.”
He ignored her, even as her fingertips traveled down the leg of his trousers. “Cor, yer hard,” she cooed. “Big strong thighs, I bet yer built like a bull, aren’t ye?”
Wrong words. Any erection that was mounting despite his mental distaste deflated like a hot-air balloon. “Excuse me,” he growled, nearly toppling her to the ground when he jumped up from the chair.
“Come back, guv,” she called. “We can have a merry party.”
With a sense of relief, he saw that the woman had now fixed her attentions on Broughton. She was crawling all over him as Broughton leaned back in his chair allowing her attentions.
Matthew had never been one for that sort of play, preferring something more direct, like his cock in a quim without preamble. What was the point of foreplay when it didn’t interest him? When he wanted to fuck, he wanted his pleasure. The rest could all go to hell.
Reaching for a glass of champagne from a passing tray, Matthew made his way to the back room where the portrait he had painted was going to be auctioned off. He had heard enough crude remarks this night, and seen enough antics to know that this was the perfect venue for his art auction. The clientele of the supper club was a good mix of old and new money. They would pay a fortune for his portrait, and in return he would use their money to fund his art gallery.
Downing the champagne, he felt the slow burn along his throat, wishing it was something stronger, even though he was already well on his way to being drunk. More and more, he found himself on the way, he thought morosely. But when one lived the sort of life he did, dissolute and isolated, one needed the company of something that understood.
Taking another glass, he watched the men swarming into the room with the club girls and their mistresses. There were no wives here this night, a fact that Wallingford did not belabor. He was here for the money to fund his art gallery. Plain and simple.
“Everything is going well,” Raeburn said as he slapped Matthew against the shoulder. “What a bloody crush.”
Matthew grunted and took a drink of his champagne as he looked about the room. It was a bloody crush. There wasn’t a corner free of slobbering lustful men waiting for a chance to see the portrait he had dangled and teased before them. Hopefully the piece would be inspiring enough to force the men to bid heavily. He needed the blunt if he was going to get his gallery opened. And the gallery had been the only thing of importance in his life for a very long time.
Finally he tore his gaze away from the crowd and settled it on his best friend. “I wasn’t aware your prison cell had an escape route,” he muttered.
Raeburn laughed, motioning away a serving girl as he did so. “Prison?” he said, his eyes glinting. “If you call having a beautiful woman at my beck and call prison, then so be it. I’ll die a convict.”
Matthew arched his brow in annoyance. Raeburn was madly in love, a fact he could not decide was a blessing or a curse. “I do call monogamy prison,” he grumbled as he looked away from the glimmer in Raeburn’s eyes. “It would be a death sentence to me to spend my life tied to one woman.”
“You haven’t found the right one yet.”
He snorted. “Out of numerous samplings, I think I would have found her, if indeed, she even existed. Admit it, Raeburn, you’re an oddity.”
His friend shrugged. “There are many men who find themselves in love.”
Not like this, Matthew thought churlishly. He had never seen a love like Raeburn shared with Anais. Even he, a depraved muff chaser, had marveled at the beauty of it. And if he were being honest with himself, which he rarely, if ever was, there were times, like now, when the wicked little fingers of jealousy crept up to choke him.
“So, I’ve heard nothing but excitement since I entered the club. Everyone is wondering what scandalous thing you’ve done.”
Matthew shook himself free of all thoughts of love and fidelity. “Why do you not stay and see for yourself?”
“I won’t be bidding, of course. I doubt it is something my future wife would welcome in our home. However, I had to come for just a peek. And what an eyeful it was. Lucky bastard.” Raeburn leered. “Imagine being tucked in your little studio with those naked women spread before you. How you must have been in your glory.”
Matthew listened while he kept his eye on the staff. The champagne was being passed about as freely as water from a fountain. Soon the men would be drunker and itching to begin the bidding.
“Not that I would have done such a thing, of course,” Raeburn continued, “I’m quite happy with Anais. There isn’t another woman who could tempt me.”
“I am well aware of your irritating attachment to your intended. I find it rather annoying, if you must know.”
“No, you don’t.” Raeburn grinned as he rocked on his heels. “You’re just jealous.”
“The hell I am,” he growled.
“Miserable again tonight,” Raeburn taunted. “Don’t worry about a thing, old boy. I have a feeling the bidding will go on for quite some time. Everyone is panting to get a glimpse of the infamous portrait.”
“I never worry,” he muttered. But his insides were tight and he felt as though he couldn’t catch his breath. It wasn’t like him to be nervous.
“I had Anais invite Lady Burroughs to our wedding,” Raeburn said, chatting away. “Thought it might make the weekend more enjoyable for you. I know how you feel about weddings and such. No need to thank me,” Raeburn added when Matthew frowned. “Well then, I think I shall be on my way. Anais, you know, is home alone.” Raeburn waggled his eyebrows at him. Matthew rolled his eyes.
“You have the rest of your life to bed the girl. Why you do not find the idea of monogamy stifling, I will never understand.”
“With the right woman, Wallingford,” Raeburn drawled, “you will never get enough of her. In the right woman’s bed, you will never grow bored.”
Could he be monogamous, even if he desired to be? He didn’t think so. He was a different man than Raeburn. Cold. Distant. He was not the sort to make a woman happy. With him, a woman would only find loneliness and emptiness, hardly conducive to conjugal contentment.
“I’m off, then,” Raeburn said as he set his glass upon a passing footman’s tray. “Do not forget you’re the best man. There isn’t anyone else I’d want by my side as I marry the woman of my dreams.”
“I will be there.”
“I thought weddings give you rashes.”
Matthew shrugged and reached for another glass of champagne. “I will simply instruct my valet to put a salve in my portmanteau.”
Raeburn grinned. “Good luck tonight.”
Matthew saluted his friend with his glass and meandered about the room. Beside a table was the infamous portrait that was still draped in canvas. One corner was beginning to slip, and Matthew saw the elaborate gilt frame peeking out from beneath the sheet. The candles from above flickered, making the gold sparkle in the light, like diamonds in a necklace.
“Gentlemen,” the loud voice of the auctioneer boomed. The cacophony of voices and laughter immediately died to an eerie quiet.
“Damn me, Wallingford, you’ve dangled this pretty little piece before us long enough. Give us a glimpse, man,” Lord Ponsomby said irritably as he tossed more brandy down his fat throat.
“Yes, you’ve had your fun, now give us a peek,” cried someone near the back of the room.
“Gentlemen,” the auctioneer yelled,