“Fie, then how could you report back to Rossi?” Sir Thomas smiled genially down at her, but his eyes were hard and hot with something other than lust.
Something about her insistence on leaving had angered him.
She shivered suddenly.
If she fought back too hard, this was the sort of man who would protest and do so in a public and dangerous way. All the anger in the world couldn’t protect her in a sea of people determined not to see. Most were gentlemen, with the occasional veiled lady in attendance—none would speak up for her. Even now, in the clear way she was being held, everyone averted their eyes.
No one, she realized with a rush, would risk offending their host when there was such a prize to be won.
Nausea squirmed in her stomach. This was not the sort of place she ought to be. She should have stayed home, but she had always—more fool her—been afraid that the world would forget about Rossi if she did not at least make some move to acknowledge he existed.
Elliot should have been the one to do this. But he had another engagement that evening, and besides, Rossi washerinvention. She had felt responsible.
Now she felt the stirrings of panic.
There were no exits. The room was still filling as more guests arrived for the bidding war. Some gentlemen had their hands on the naked models, practically dragging them into the room. No one batted an eye. If this was not regular behavior, then certainly they did not believe it was worth commenting on.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sir Thomas announced, stepping forward and dragging Thalia with him. Faces blurred before her eyes; she considered stamping on his foot and running off. “I have with me someone very special today: an ambassador of Alessandro Rossi himself. Please welcome Madam Goode.”
The crowd clapped politely. Thalia looked desperately around—and froze when she spied a familiar face, staring at her with more fury than Sir Thomas could ever have summoned.
And behind that, concern.
The Duke of Marrowhurst was here.
And he recognized her.
It took everything in Maxwell not to stride over to where that bastard held her by the arm and start a brawl. This entire business was sleezy; he had not known precisely how it would be when he received the invitation, but until he had seen Lady Thalia, he had regretted attending at all.
Now he seethed at the other end of the room.
Was sheRossi’s ambassador? That seemed unlikely. The paleness of her face and the way she was very obviously hunting for an escape told him that she had not come here for this purpose.
He wasn’t surprised she had put herself in another dangerous position. That was just part of the woman he was coming to know. And this was not the sort of party that she ought to be attending, but he doubted she had known beforehand. After all, he did not. He had merely attended so he could glimpse the sculpture.
It was a beautiful thing; he could appreciate that. Before, he had criticized Rossi because he hadn’t fully noted the level of detail, or the subtle elegance, of the work.
Thalia held his gaze, and he could practically feel her begging him not to reveal her. What did she take him for?
No, he would not reveal her true identity; if she wanted to beMadam Goodehere—an irony he could not help but acknowledge—then he would let her.
But he would be getting her out of there before anything worse happened.
“Let the bidding begin,” Sir Thomas called, a smarmy smile on his lips as he looked down at Thalia. The look of a man who already thought he had won for the evening.
He would soon find that was not the case.
The crowd parted before him as he strode closer, both to Sir Thomas and the sculpture.Passione, it was called. Fitting, he supposed. There was almost an innocence to the pose, as though it was less about the natural lust that might arise from a naked embrace and more about the gentler feelings a man might have for a woman.
“I will buy it,” he said in a voice that would carry throughout the room. “Everyone else will go home.”
Sir Thomas licked his lips. “Your Grace. The bidding has not yet taken place.”
“It doesn’t need to. I will buy the sculpture. Name your price.”
“I—” Sir Thomas glanced to one side, as though hoping someone might come and save him from the interaction.
Thalia raised her chin. “The piece is far more precious than you would appreciate, Your Grace.”
