The Perfect Mistress (12 page)

"As if anyone would notice," Gabrielle grumbled, wincing through the rubbing that followed, then ducking away and hurrying for the door.

But they did notice. The moment she appeared in the drawing room doorway, four pairs of feminine eyes fastened on her rosy cheeks and nervous smile, evaluating their sincerity and potential allure. Quickly, those perceptive gazes slid downward over her person, assessing the display of her ripe young curves and predicting the earl's reaction to them. He should find her seductively girlish dress and torrent of blond curls nothing short of riveting, they decided, nodding covertly to one another and settling back on their seats, awaiting the coming encounter.

Gabrielle paused in the doorway, feeling their scrutiny and donning her best distracted-by-ecstasy smile. But as she surveyed the room, her heart sank at the sight of an all too familiar circle of fancy figured silk and feathered hats… juxtaposed against one lone chair.

"Here she is now," her mother said, rising with a smile that had more maternal admonition than indulgence in it. The earl was on his feet in an instant, turning to her. For a moment Gabrielle was struck dumb.

He was tall, broad shouldered, and surpassingly elegant, clad in a finely tailored black double-breasted morning coat, charcoal gray trousers, and a dove gray silk tie. His dark hair was parted on one side and brushed casually back, framing his sculptured features and fathomless brown eyes that fairly brimmed with passionate potential. She caught her breath, trying to reconcile this paragon of masculinity with her memory of the man she had struck a bargain with less than twenty-four hours ago. He had the same features, the same hair, the same dark, worldly gaze. But somehow, in the light of day, in her mother's drawing room, he seemed so much taller and more imposing, so much more powerful and self-assured, so much more
male
.

"Gabrielle," he said, drinking her in with his eyes and producing a convincing smile in response to what he saw. The warmth of his greeting might have reassured her, if she hadn't glanced up and read in his eyes an unsettling swirl of determination. She extended her hands, more in an unconscious gesture of self-defense than in welcome. He seized both as if they had been offered to him, smiled, and bent to brush them with his lips.

"Gabrielle, my dear, we were just having a chat with your Lord Sandbourne," her mother's voice intruded, making her realize that she was still standing just inside the doorway with her hands captive in his, staring at him. "Come and sit, dear. Gunther is here with the tea."

Your Lord Sandbourne
. The words rang in Gabrielle's mind, proclaiming that her plan had successfully cleared its first hurdle. But, as he led her to the empty chair beside her mother, she could feel Rosalind scrutinizing every nuance of her behavior toward him and sensed that her delirious new love was still on trial. She thought it best to stare longingly at him as he returned to his chair, and used the opportunity to scrutinize his erect carriage, the fluid power of his movements, and the sensual acumen evident in his face, trying to see him as her mother must. A trickle of relief ran through her. He was perfectly irresistible… in a worldly, carnal, and intimidating sort of way.

Catching herself engrossed in the symmetry of his features and the power latent in his long frame, she blinked to free her vision and found him examining her with an openness that in the drawing rooms of proper society would have been considered an affront to decency.

Pierce watched her cheeks grow pink and her lashes flutter down with embarrassment and felt his manly indignation sliding. The mystery of what had brought him here was solved. She was nothing short of captivating. He let his eyes drift down over her straight shoulders, full bosom, and narrow waist, visually stripping away the coy ruffles that disguised them to memorize the tantalizing curves beneath. Hell—she was a full-blown beauty. Whoever had chosen her garments had understood well the perennial male fascination with innocence tainted by awakening desire.

Their attempt to make her appear sweet and virginal, while simultaneously displaying the ripening of her body and sexual potential, was a brilliant success.

Every aspect of her appearance radiated a summons to sensory delight, and even knowing that things were not what they seemed, he felt himself responding to that carefully crafted invitation with roused attentiveness. The visual softness of her honey blond tresses, the creaminess of her skin, and the translucent cling of her dress generated that oddly tactile response—that tantalizing itch—in his fingertips once again. And even the fact that his carnal interest in her was being closely observed and measured against some inscrutable feminine standard didn't seem to deter his stubborn impulses.

When Gunther had finished laying out the tea cart, Rosalind presided over the serving with small talk about the oncoming summer. "We usually go to the seaside for much of the summer heat," she said with deceptive casualness. "But the duke is still away on one of his grand hunting safaris, and I thought that it might be prudent to stay in town, to help our Gabrielle become better acquainted with the city. And you, your lordship, will you abandon the city for the summer?"

"I had considered it." He accepted a cup of tea and stirred it with slow, deliberate strokes that drew Gabrielle's attention. Around and around, she followed the movement of his hand, watching the way it cradled the spoon and feeling an odd swirling sensation in her middle. "My estates in Sussex are near the shore, and the sea breezes are pleasant." He intercepted Gabrielle's gaze with an intimate smile. "But now I believe I shall stay in London. Summer in the city also has its… pleasures."

Gabrielle broke that contact, taken aback by the directness of his regard and the insinuation in his words. But as she accepted a cup of tea an instant later and caught the scrutiny of her mother's friends, she remembered and reminded herself that he was supposed to appear aflame with desire for her and returned him an anemic smile.

"
Alors
, your lordship, you seem to have suffered no ill effects from your harrowing encounter of last night," Genevieve Francette said, using her comment as an excuse to look him over. "I understand you gave quite an accounting of yourself."

"My harrowing encounter?" He paused mid-sip and flicked a glance at Gabrielle.

"Them vile ruffians…" Clementine Bolt declared, popping the rest of a biscuit into her mouth and munching. "Ought to be horsewhipped, that's what." She dabbed crumbs from her mouth. "Out in York that's what we'd do."

"Ruffians?" He blinked, then frowned at Gabrielle, who realized instantly what was afoot and forced her smile broader to conceal her panic.

"I told Mama about the way you
rescued
me. How you gallantly charged in to save me from those horrid men… who tried to drag me into their carriage," she said, signaling him with widened eyes to follow her lead and go along with the tale.

"Ah, yes. The men in the carriage," he said, after a perilously long pause.

"It was dark and raining and I was so concerned for Gabrielle that I took no notice of their faces."

"Who would have thought you had such a passion for 'rescue work,' Lord Sandbourne," Ariadne said tartly, drawing sly chortles from the others.

"And how
genereuse
of you to carry our little Gabby to a restaurant to recover," Genevieve added.

"Indeed," Rosalind put in, then after a perfectly timed pause, pinned the earl with another scalpel-sharp look. "I don't believe Gabrielle mentioned the name of this restaurant." She offered him the tray of biscuits. "I only ask because she seems to have left her slippers there."

"Oh, didn't I say?" Gabrielle hurried to answer for him. "It was—"

"The Monmortaine," Lord Sandbourne inserted before she could finish.

Gabrielle gave him a startled look, which she covered a moment later with a halfhearted smile. He apparently didn't want her mother to know he had taken her to a restaurant that catered to appetites having nothing to do with food. "And as for my slippers, I believe I—"

"Lost them in the street, during the scuffle," the earl provided, catching her eye in a bit of teasing that fairly flaunted the fraudulence of his answer.

Alarmed by his boldness, when the credibility of their story was already stretched quite thin, she shook her head, hoping that it would seem she was chastising him for his teasing.

"The Montmortaine." Rosalind lifted the teapot and used it as an excuse to fix the earl with a skeptical stare. "I know it well. More tea?"

The cups were filled once more and talk veered mercifully to other things: the fashions at Ascot, the best place to hire riding horses in town, the state of the streets after the heavy rain…

Pierce gradually relaxed, sensing the worst was past. Whatever the reason, Rosalind LeCoeur was keeping her doubts about him and her questions about their admittedly unconvincing story to herself, allowing the bizarre interview to proceed.

Gabrielle, however, was on tenterhooks, maintaining her pretense of girlish adoration while watching Lord Sandbourne fend off her mother's curiosity. He proved to be as adroit with skeptical mothers as he was with stubborn daughters—answering some questions, sidestepping others—

holding his own against her mother and that trio of expert courtesans. But repeatedly, as she scrutinized his performance, she found her attention narrowing and fixing on his expressive mouth, the subtle movements of his shoulders, and the language of his worldly eyes. More than once she was jarred by the sound of her mother's voice and realized she had been lost to what was being said around her. She could only dissemble and pray her embarrassment would be seen as a sign of being overwhelmed by her

"beloved."

It was a great relief to all when the Napoleon clock on the mantel struck the hour of six. Rosalind immediately deposited her cup on the butler's tray and leveled an imperative look on her guest. Taking his cue, Pierce rose to place his cup on the tray and take his leave. The time of decision had finally come.

Gabrielle slid to the edge of her chair, her back rail straight, looking to her mother with a hopefulness that was entirely genuine. As Pierce positioned himself beside Gabrielle's chair, Rosalind hesitated one final moment, studying the way they looked together and luxuriating in the high drama of the moment.

"So good to have met you, your lordship." Rosalind rose and met Pierce's inquiring look with a ruthlessly neutral expression. "We would have you call upon our Gabrielle again. Tomorrow. Shall we say… three o'clock?"

Gabrielle felt like her bones were melting.

"Three o'clock would be most agreeable," Pierce responded, taking Gabrielle's hand. "But I fear, the hours until then will seem the longest in the history of the world."

He kissed her fingertips while gazing into her eyes… a gesture she knew was meant for their audience, but which still produced a disconcerting shiver in her. As quickly as appearances permitted, she extracted her hand from his to slide it demurely into the crook of his arm.

"Come, your lordship… I'll see you to the door."

Steering him out the drawing room door and across the entry hall, she lengthened her stride in order to give her skirts a bit more sway and make certain that her flounces brushed his trousers as they walked. Then as they waited near the door for Gunther to bring his hat and walking stick, she felt her mother's gaze and edged closer to him.

"You did it—she will accept you as my lover!" she whispered with compressed excitement, hoping that her mother would interpret her animation as romantic delight.

"Lucky me," he said with a sardonic half smile, glancing down at her hand, which was squeezing his arm. "You might have told me who you were last night, Gabrielle LeCoeur… daughter of the duke of Carlisle."

She pulled her hand away and felt her cheeks reddening. "Illegitimate daughter of the duke's mistress," she corrected quietly. "You wouldn't have believed me." He stiffened but couldn't honestly deny it. "And it doesn't make any difference in our agreement. You still need help with the prime minister, and I still need a lover."

She halted, wondering if now he would cry off, now that he knew who and what she was.

He stared at her, searching her upturned face, with its intense summer-sky eyes and long amber lashes, and wondered the same thing.

Should the fact that she was the daughter of a duke of the realm make a difference? It didn't seem to make a difference to her mother, who was obviously intent on securing her a wealthy lover. A faint smile crept over his face. If he were honest, the fact of her illicit nobility added a certain piquancy to the scheme. She was a love child, the product of a grand and sweeping passion, who claimed to have no passions of her own. The challenge to his curiosity, his cunning, and his sensual pride was too much to resist. She certainly
did
need a lover. In fact, he had never met a woman who needed a lover more.

His warming expression betrayed his decision before he spoke.

"Exactly what am I to plan for… when I come to pick you up tomorrow at three?"