A Perfect Scandal. Tina Gabrielle
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to lose, and there was a Gainsborough at stake.
The London Stock Exchange had been particularly busy this morning. When Marcus had heard about the estate sale in which the 1781 painting by Thomas Gainsborough, Seashore with Fishermen, would be auctioned off to the highest bidder, his secretary had scrambled to reschedule several important appointments.
Marcus reached the mansion’s top steps, and before he could knock, a dour-faced butler swung the door open. People were already milling about inside, attesting to his lateness.
A muscle flicked at his jaw. He refused to be outbid.
He stepped into a grand vestibule lavishly appointed with marble floors, high ceilings hung with sparkling crystal chandeliers, and quality paintings on the walls.
A tall, reed-thin man approached. He was dressed in striped trousers that made his long legs appear as if he walked on stilts. He was strikingly bald with pale blue eyes in a narrow face.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hawksley,” the man said. “I anticipated I would see you today.”
Marcus greeted Dante Black, the former Bonham’s auctioneer, with a curt nod. “Where is it, Dante?”
“The late Lord Westley had several intimate drawing rooms to showcase his art throughout his home. Gainsborough’s Seashore with Fishermen is located on the upper floor, at the end of the hall, past the library. There are other notable pieces exhibited there as well that may interest you. All the items are rare and exquisite.” Dante Black withdrew a gold pocket watch from his waistcoast. “Only fifteen minutes remain for prospective buyers to view the art before the auction takes place in the parlor.”
Marcus nodded. “That’s all the time I need, Dante.”
Wondering what other art the auctioneer had in mind, Marcus bounded up the staircase. He was always open to adding new quality works to his vast collection.
He nodded at passersby as he strode down the hall, recognizing other wealthy collectors, museum curators, and titled nobility with a taste for fine art. Even Lord Yarmouth, the Regent’s personal art agent, who was an influential and informed art collector in his own right, was present. His robust wife, Lady Yarmouth, was by his side. Marcus was well aware that Prinny was an avid collector of Thomas Gainsborough’s work, and he suspected Yarmouth was present to bid on the same piece.
Pulse pounding in anticipation, Marcus opened the door and rushed into the first room past the library.
His gaze swept the room’s dimly lit interior.
He stopped short, shocked.
Seconds passed, then he burst out laughing.
Row after row of erotic statues crammed the vast room. Naked nymphs with huge breasts, fierce warriors, and boys on the brink of manhood—all with enormously oversized penises—were arrayed in splendid decadence throughout the space. Couples in various sexual positions, some with amazingly flexible and contorted limbs; others in the throes of ecstasy, heads thrown back, mouths open simulating pleasure. Erotic frescoes and paintings lined the walls as well, depicting orgies in Roman togas and marble pools.
In the back of the room was an immense, round bed, big enough to hold at least four people. Red satin sheets adorned the mattress and a canopy of fine red gauze shrouded the perimeter of the bed. A fabric swing, two people wide, hung from the ceiling beside the bed. Marcus’s fertile imagination pictured lovers in the swing, swaying back and forth, culminating their passion.
Who would have thought the late Lord Westley, a respectable member of society and the House of Lords, had such wild tastes?
Marcus turned in a full circle, absorbing the erotic scene before him.
He became instantly aroused.
He was, after all, a flesh-and-blood man.
“Mr. Hawksley.”
Marcus spun around at the sound of a soft, feminine voice. He saw nothing save a gaudy statue of Diana, the Roman goddess of the hunt, one hand cradling a large breast, and the other hand cupping the V between her legs.
“Who’s there?” he called out.
“It’s me, Mr. Hawksley.”
Sunlight from a small, overhead window cast a shadow on the Diana statue. A slender woman appeared from behind, her hand grazing the statue’s white hip as she glided to stand before it.
Marcus blinked, wondering if his imagination had conjured her forth. “Isabel?”
She smiled and met his gaze.
She looked ethereal, unreal in the dim light, dressed in a flowing white dress with a low embroidered bodice. The gown was an arousing concoction, modest enough not to be daring, yet sufficiently tantalizing to reveal a narrow waist, slender hips, and the curve of a full breast.
Her striking sable hair was loose, unlike at the Holloways’ ball, and hung in thick waves down her back. Her only jewelry was two mother-of-pearl combs, sweeping the hair from her face, revealing blue eyes and delicately boned features.
He had thought her a beautiful woman last night, but here…now…amongst the backdrop of eroticism, dressed as she was, she was exquisite.
Immediately, his guard came up. “What are you doing here?”
“I need you, Mr. Hawksley.”
It was the last thing he had expected to hear, and the most damaging thing she could have said to his already overstimulated senses.
“What are you talking about?” His voice sounded harsh to his own ears.
She stepped closer, and her perfume—a subtle scent of lilacs—wafted toward him.
“I need your help, Marcus.”
Marcus. At the sound of his Christian name on her lips, his heart pounded an erratic rythm.
He realized he was staring, gawking at her. “Help you?” he asked, coming to his senses. “Do you realize what will happen if we are found alone like this, especially here, in this room?”
He shifted to the side, looking behind her. “Where is your chaperone? Your father?”
“I’m alone, of course.”
“But why?”
She stepped even closer, her ripe body swaying like that of a skilled courtesan, yet surrounded by an aura of innocence. The contradiction was fascinating and alluring all at once. She looked, quite simply, like a sacrificial virgin in one of the frescoes on the wall.
Looking him straight in the eye, she said, “I need to have a liaison, and I want it to be with you.”
He stood absolutely still and wondered if he had heard her correctly. After a moment, realization dawned on him, and he chuckled. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Why would you think that?”
“After not seeing you for all these years, you approach me at Lady Holloway’s ball and very forwardly ask me to dance. Then the next day you show up here”—he spread his arm toward the debauchery in the room—“and ask me to become your lover. If this is not a joke, then what else can it be?”
A thoughtful smile curved her mouth. “I assure you, Marcus, this isn’t a joke.”
“However did you find me?”
“I rummaged through my father’s files to find your business address. Father is a member of the Stock Exchange, you see. When I arrived at your place of business, your secretary, James Smith, was leaving the building and told me where you had gone. So this is no joke. I’m quite serious about my offer.”
He shook his head. “I spent a summer at your father’s country manor when you were twelve years old. You were an adorable child, creating mischief, exasperating your elders, and training your younger twin siblings to follow your example. I was fond of you and your father and that’s why