The Perfect Mistress (13 page)

"A ride in the park would be good." She smiled, visibly relieved. "Or a visit to a cathedral, a library, or a museum. Someplace serious or sober or sensible."

"Serious, sober, or sensible? Romantic little thing, aren't you?" Her purposeful manner gave him pause. "Just what sort of infamous doings do you have planned, once you have escaped your mother's thrall?"

She started to say something, but after a glance toward the drawing room, she thought better of it and produced a beaming smile instead. "We can discuss that tomorrow, when we have a bit more time and privacy."

Time and privacy
. He studied her smooth skin and sapphire blue eyes, feeling a rustle of anticipation. Capturing her hands, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss on each.

"Until tomorrow at three." With a last sweeping glance at her, he turned to Gunther and motioned for his hat and cane.

She stood for a moment after the door closed behind him, touching the backs of her hands and feeling a bit dazed by the early successes of her scheme. It had worked! She whirled and raced for the stairs, glowing with newfound confidence. If all went as planned, within a month or two she would be a safely married woman.

Rosalind and her lady friends watched from the drawing room as Gabrielle lifted her skirts and flew to the stairs the minute the door closed behind the earl. To their experienced and observant eyes, she appeared to be the very picture of a young woman in the first intoxicating throes of love—

transported, glowing. But, being mistresses of artful illusion themselves, they knew full well how deceiving appearances could be.

"What do you think?" Rosalind demanded, crossing her arms and planting herself before her panel of amorous experts.

" 'Andsome devil," Clementine said with a naughty twinkle in her eyes.

"Did you see them I-can-see-right-through-yer-muslin eyes? them come-let-me-nibble-ye lips? Temptation on the hoof, I say. Sin just waitin' to happen." And the wistful lust in her eyes said just whom she wished it would happen to.

"Lord, Clementine," Ariadne said with a sniff of disgust, "you are so easy."

"O' course." Clementine lifted her chin with defiant good humor. "It's part o' my charm."

"He's a first-rate bounder," Ariadne declared, spearing Clementine with a glare and smoothing the folds of her fashionably draped skirt as she delivered her judgment. "He's smug and arrogant, and he's never been denied a thing in his life. I know his sort. He's a taker not a giver… naught but trouble for a green young girl."

Rosalind began to wring her hands.

"
Non, non
," Genevieve said, reaching out to give Rosalind's arm a comforting squeeze. "It matters not how many women he has known; he has not
loved
before. Of that I am sure. And until a man loves…" She shrugged. "Well, who can say what love will make of him, eh?"

"All I know is… 'e's built like a stallion and moves like a tomcat,"

Clementine said impishly. " 'E'll make one mighty fine bed warmer on a cold winter night."

"Bed warmer,
humph
. You're getting old, Clementine," Ariadne chided.

"He's wild as a March hare, rich as Croesus, and handsome as Lucifer. That's a recipe for ruin. And I don't care if his kisses are like volcanic fire and he can take a girl to heaven thirty-nine different ways… he's just not worth it."

"Ahhh, but did you see the light in
la petite's
eyes?" Genevieve raised a finger of exception. "Perhaps
she
will think he is worth it."

"It doesn't matter what she thinks," Rosalind declared sharply, stepping into the fray. "She is much too inexperienced and hardheaded to decide what is good for her. Which is why I must do it for her." She began to circle the room, giving her train of delicate silk flounces an absentminded kick at each turn. Her scowl caused much-dreaded worry lines between her brows.

"He is much too handsome to suit me. I'd prefer someone a good bit less experienced and a great deal less sure of himself. And that pathetic yarn they spun of him rescuing her…"

"What do you think really happened?" Ariadne asked.

"I haven't a clue." Rosalind paused to stare at a mental picture of her daughter and the earl, side by side, and her crow's-feet deepened. "All I know is… yesterday she was physically ill over a mere kiss, and today she is feverish to take 'Lord Scandalbourne' as her lover."

"Well, you can't just toss 'im out," Clementine countered. "He's too rich an' handsome an' titled. Why, he's a prime catch!"

"And the first gentleman
la petite
has shown willingness for." Genevieve waved a hand, drawing their attention. "Think,
mes amies
, of the way they look together."

Each woman conjured a vision of Gabrielle and the earl as they had stood by the front doors… her delicate form yielding to his touch, his dark frame taut with reined desire. They were nothing short of breathtaking together, a study in contrasts—darkness and light, power and vulnerability—one a gentle seduction and the other a dangerous allure. And they had scarcely been able to take their eyes from each other during the encounter.

"Like Adonis and Aphrodite." Ariadne's rigid shoulders softened.

"He looked at her like she was made of sugar." Clementine wagged her head. "An' him with a powerful sweet tooth."

"In his eyes, in his soul, there is the hunger,
oui?
And the way she watched him… he has struck 'the spark' in her, I am certain," Genevieve added wistfully.

"A fine lot of help you are." Rosalind interrupted their separate romantic reveries. Then, as if their digressions had only focused and defined her intentions, she strode to the serving cart and picked up the cup he had used, regarding it with a fierce new resolve.

"I don't trust either of them. His sudden desire for an established love…

her abrupt change of heart… I will not throw away my daughter's blossoming passions on a ravening beast, even if he does own half of the Bank of England." With her new maternal instincts at high quiver, she set her jaw and raised the cup that stood proxy for Pierce St. James.

"So you are mad about my daughter, eh, Sandbourne?" she demanded, her countenance filling with determination. "Well, we shall see about that."

Pierce arrived at Maison LeCoeur promptly at three o'clock the next afternoon, intending to collect his new inamorata and spirit her off in his carriage. He was shown immediately into the drawing room, where he discovered Rosalind posed artfully amidst satin pillows and spring flowers, alone and awaiting him.

"I see you are prompt, Lord Sandbourne," she said, lifting an eyebrow in the direction of the clock. That tartly delivered observation spoke volumes about his status in her household; he was still very much on approval.

"What man would not hurry to Gabrielle's side?"

"Indeed." Her smile did not quite extend to her eyes as she rose and took him by the arm, turning him back to the entry hall. "But, surely you will agree that there are some things that must
not
be hurried, especially in these delicate matters." He slowed and stiffened, certain he was being tossed out on his ear. She merely smiled and gave his arm a tug, directing him toward the stairs.

"As a man of the world, you must appreciate that a young girl's heart and passions—to yield a bounty of delight—must be cultivated with care." She watched his reaction carefully. "Gabrielle has had so little experience with men. I think it best to proceed slowly… to give her a chance to know you before she is introduced to…"

"Pleasure." He made himself say it, though it somehow dried his mouth.

"Exactly. I knew you would understand." She urged him up the sweeping marble steps. "To that end, I have arranged for you to see her in the shelter of familiar surroundings—her own boudoir—for the next several days." He stopped abruptly in the middle of the stairs, scowling.

"Her boudoir?" He clamped his jaw for a minute to forbid the escape of any stray expletives. "That is"—
ridiculous
, he thought—"unnecessary," he said. "I am well aware of Gabrielle's status. I have planned a carriage ride, this afternoon. Nothing more."

"Quite out of the question," Rosalind said, meeting his aristocratic air with equal hauteur. "There are proprieties to be observed. I could never allow Gabrielle out in public in the company of a man with whom she has no
established
relationship."

Proprieties? This was the demimonde, for God's sake, he thought furiously. What the hell kind of proprieties could they possibly have to observe here?

"You mean to say that I am not allowed in public with her?" he demanded, his voice tight with the strain of remaining civil.

"That is exactly what I mean to say," Rosalind said, with a hint of condescension, as if his lack of sagacity in these matters disappointed her.

Taking his elbow again, she urged him along. "But if things progress as hoped… it shouldn't be long."

"How long?"

"I would never presume to say, your lordship." She raked him with a practiced feminine glance that contained equal parts assessment and flattery.

"I rather think that is up to you. But then, a
true
lover appreciates the prelude as much as the pleasure itself… don't you think?"

As she led him down a broad, lavishly appointed hallway, Pierce's mind raced to make sense of his bizarre situation. A
true
lover. This was some sort of a test of his intentions. In a matter of moments he would be closeted away with Gabrielle, given permission—more like orders—to romance and seduce her. It was either decamp now, this very minute, or find himself trapped in a beautiful young girl's boudoir for days on end… tutoring her endlessly in the arts of love.

Pretending
to tutor her.

Good God. What had he gotten himself into?

As he strode along he thought frantically of her striking face, her shapely curves, and sparkling eyes. He thought of the way she surprised and amused him. Then, almost as an afterthought, he remembered Gladstone…

By the time they reached the ornate double doors, his face was frozen in a polite mask that barely covered the turmoil he was feeling inside. Rosalind paused with her hand on the polished brass handle, commanding his attention to make one last point.

"I entrust Gabrielle to your expertise, your lordship," she said, with an unmistakable shimmer of warning in her gaze. "And to your restraint."

Then, she opened the door and waved him inside with a fierce little smile.

6

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P
ierce strode purposefully into the room, his eyes crackling with irritation and spun on his heel as the door closed behind him, keenly aware that a portal of decision had just closed as well. There was no going back now. He was obligated, by pride as much as agreement. And despite Gabrielle's assurances and his confidence in his ability to hold his own in a ticklish situation, he was beginning to think he might regret this bit of sensual intrigue. Decisions made by the lower half of a man's anatomy were seldom seconded by his common sense. And this decision had "loins" stamped all over it.

Gradually the sight of the gilt-trimmed door insinuated itself into his consciousness, and he turned slowly, surveying the place where he would pass the required time in close confines with Gabrielle. It was a large sitting room that glowed warm and golden, like a softly polished tiger's eye. Gauzy sunlight coming through a large bay window added luster to the exotic gold and burnt umber brocades that covered walls and furnishings. Underfoot was a thick Persian carpet in amber and burgundy tones, and nearby, a huge, pillow-strewn divan was grouped with matching Queen Anne parlor chairs in front of a carved marble fireplace. On the far end of the room stood a writing desk flanked by floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and natural wonders, and in the middle sat a grand piano surrounded by lush ferns and potted palms.

But the set piece of the chamber, the focus of that display of evocative splendor, was Gabrielle herself, perched on the edge of a chair with the streaming light from the window behind her setting her honey blond hair aglow and brushing golden highlights over the delicate, weblike silk of her dress. For a moment he stood, just breathing in the soft, roselike fragrance that permeated the chamber.
Her
scent. And as recall joined recognition, he exhaled slowly and felt his irritation draining, recounting his reasons for involving himself with her in the first place… boredom, passion, and the prime minister of Britain.

"Your lordship!" Gabrielle sprang up, reading in his turbulent expression his displeasure at getting so much more than he had bargained for. "I apologize. I had no idea she would lock us up together because I'm a—a—"

"Beginner," he supplied, with a rare bit of tact, emerging from his intense sensory immersion into a strangely improved mood. "And just possibly because she believes me to be a bounder and a high-living cad who can't be trusted with a young girl." He came to lean an arm on the edge of the piano.

"Hardly," she declared, so intent on her own indignation that she missed the hint of the sardonic in his tone. "I am certain she finds you a sterling prospect." She scowled. "I am the one who is suspect… being an ungrateful