Page 25 of The Pearl (The Godwicks 3)

That statement was a lot to take in.

“Her crap dead husband,” Arthur repeated. “Do I want to know what you call me behind my back?”

“Lord Dogshit. Viscount Manwhore. The Rude Baron.”

“Am I a baron?” he asked solely to make Regan’s underling roll her eyes. It worked. “I’ll have to ask Dad. I can’t remember my own titles, much less his. Anyway, I do like ‘Viscount Manwhore.’ I’ll put that on my stationery. What should be on the crest? One big cock or three smaller cocks in a triangular formation?”

“You’re not funny.”

“Why are you laughing then?”

“Pity for the madman.”

“I’ll take all the sympathy I can get. Please tell ‘the boss’ that I do have formal attire, and my fresh young cock willgleefully—” his sarcasm was out of control by this point “—escort her to the hunt ball being thrown by the geezer friends of her crap dead husband.” He shoved the invitation back into the envelope. “And you have my answer, so you may go unless you’d like to come in and call me more names over tea.”

She raised her eyebrows, and he noted that her blue eyes were even bluer when they were glowing with pure venom.

“No need for airs,my lord,” she said. “We’re both on her payroll, remember?”

Laughing, she turned away and half-walked, half-skipped down the path to the iron gate. Someone—not him, but definitely someone—needed to turn her over their knee. Immediately.

Upon returning to his bedroom, Arthur checked the mantel clock. 6:30. The hunt ball began at eight. Plenty of time for a shower and shave and stealing a splash of his father’s Le Labo cologne.

* * *

Arthur arrivedat The Pearl Hotel a few minutes before eight. On his way to the lift, he heard the strains of music from the ballroom and saw well-heeled guests streaming through the doors.

At the penthouse door he knocked and waited. He expected Regan’s redcoat to answer it, but Regan herself opened the door.

She stood there in her robe, hair tied back, make-up understated but for her full burgundy lips. Pearl drops dangled from her ears.

“Am I late?” he asked.

“You’re in uniform,” she said.

He glanced down as if just now noticing his own clothing.

“Mess dress,” he said. “Pretty standard attire for a hunt ball. Did you want a tux instead? I can run home.”

Mess dress was military party dress—in his case, a scarlet cutaway jacket with gold trim, dark waistcoat, and navy trousers with braid down the outseam.

“No, no,” she said softly. “You’d said you were joining your regiment in January. I suppose I’d forgotten. I’d been picturing you in a tuxedo, that’s all.”

“Really, I can run home and—”

“Absolutely not. You look…very nice.” She let him into the sitting room. “Have a drink if you like. I’ll run up and finish dressing.”

In her silk kimono, she didn’t so much run up the stairs but flowed up them, robe lightly billowing behind her like a black cloud. He went to the fireplace and saw that she’d left de Morgan’sThe Gilded Cagehanging above it but had now added a new work of art to the mantel.

A small bronze sculpture of a dancing couple. The man was nude, but the female form wore a sort of skirt from the waist down. They were dancing so close their lower bodies merged into one.

“It’sThe Waltzby Camille Claudel,” Regan said.

Arthur turned and looked up at her as she came down the stairs. She wore a low-cut gown of ice blue, the skirt fitting her hips like a glove and then falling in soft folds to the floor. The words “Old Hollywood” came to Arthur’s mind, especially with her hair parted on the side and laying on her shoulder in thick dark waves.

“You look stunning,” Arthur said simply.

“Iamstunning.” It seemed she’d recovered from the shock of seeing him in uniform. He still didn’t know if it was a good shock or a bad shock, but he was hoping for good.

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