The Perfect Mistress (14 page)

'modern' girl who has resisted her mothers attempts to instruct her in the necessary allurements and who only two days ago declared she wanted nothing to do with love or romance." She heaved a disgusted sigh. "I am afraid it's my fault you're being locked up with me for days on end. She is worried that I won't behave as a proper mistress should."

He studied her for a moment, realizing she was serious, and broke into a wry smile. " A proper mistress… Now, there is an image to ponder. And here I thought the whole purpose of a mistress was impropriety. It just goes to show how things have changed with you 'modern' girls." He looked her over with a twinkle in his eyes that spoke of private amusement and of complicated, worldly intentions. "By the way, I've been meaning to ask: exactly what does it mean to be a
modern
girl?"

"Well, I'm not entirely clear on that, myself," she said, fighting the urge to cross her arms over her breasts and shield them from his gaze. It was a very good thing he wasn't pursuing her passions in earnest, she thought; she would be totally out of her depth with a man like him. "But I believe it has to do with thinking too much, and having opinions of your own, and not meekly obeying your mother when she tries to run and ruin your life."

"Good Lord—by that standard, I would probably qualify." He laughed, a soft, seductive rumble that vibrated her fingertips, then he pushed off from the piano and strolled around her boudoir, trailing his fingers over the silk-clad walls, gilded picture frames, and polished mahogany.

She heaved a quiet sigh of relief. He was taking their confinement better than she had expected.

"Well, Gabrielle," he said, "what do we do now?"

As she watched him appreciating the chamber's assemblage of erotic textures and exotic hues, her anxiety began to rise again. The room was cannily crafted to evoke a lush, romantic aura—furnished, textured, and perfumed to pique sensory hungers and turn a man's mind from the burdens of rank and duty to amorous dalliance. Just setting foot across the threshold was halfway to a seduction. And the last thing she needed was Lord Sandbourne in an amorous mood.

"Well, I believe I am supposed to charm and impress you with my accomplishments and graces. And you are supposed to respond with…"

"Generosity?" he supplied, clamping his hands behind his back as he paused to look up at a painting of a sundrenched seascape.

"Gifts would be excellent."

"Eagerness?" He strolled to the huge mirror above the mantel, then to the window to take in the view of a small tea garden that surrounded the terrace below.

"I suppose," she responded cautiously, considering his formidable elegance and wondering what, if anything, could make a man of his experience
eager
. "Whatever we do, we must make it appear that we are wholeheartedly engaged in romance."

"Speaking of appearances…" He halted on his circuit about the room.

"How will your mother know when we're 'romantic' enough to be let out on our own?"

Surprised, she pursed one corner of her mouth and considered it. "I haven't the faintest idea."

At that very moment, just outside the door, Rosalind was fretting under the watchful and sympathetic eyes of her majordomo, the upstairs maid, and Ariadne Baden-Powell, who had come to support and advise. Rosalind halted and put her ear to the door for a minute, then paced back to them in frustration.

"I can't hear a thing," she declared in a furious whisper, then rolled her eyes heavenward. "Please, God, just don't let her be going on and on about how to tell Liszt from Wagner and Pre-Raphaelite from neoclassicist, the way she did with the poor count." She clasped her hand over her heart as she recalled the rest of Gabrielle's behavior with her last suitor. "She could be getting sick, even as we speak."

She turned to glare at the door, and her gaze fell on the keyhole. A lady of breeding and refinement would never stoop to such a thing. However, a desperate mother—especially one unaccustomed to "mothering"—had to get her information however she could. She hiked her skirts with a determined expression and sank onto her knees to put her eye to the keyhole. But as she positioned herself, her dress caught under her and she fell against the door with a soft thud.

In a flash, Gunther was helping her up and spiriting her down the hall, away from the door. But after a few moments, when the door didn't open and their heart rates returned to normal, they crept back. And soon Rosalind was at the keyhole once more, staring in mounting frustration at a bright window and an empty divan.

Pierce's exploration of the chamber had carried him past two portraits of elegant women posed in sylvan settings and brought him up before the shelves lined with books at the far end of the chamber. He paused to study the books and ticked off the names.

"Shakespeare, Donne, Blake, Pope, Keats, Byron—the great poets!" He perused more of the bindings, taking note of the authors' names, and his eyes widened at the selection on the second shelf: "What have we here?

Wesley, Pascal, John Locke, Voltaire, Descartes, St. Thomas Aquinas…"

The contents of the third shelf astonished him. "And Homer, Virgil, The
Orations of Cicero
, the plays of Euripides, the
Dialogues of Plato
. And Ovid, no less." He slid the volume from the shelf and turned to her. "Your father certainly has elevated tastes in reading matter."

"My father?" His assumption that such reading matter must belong to a man irritated her. "Those are
my
books. Really, Lord Sandbourne, wouldn't you prefer to have a seat—"

"Yours?" He turned the elegant little volume over in his hands, drew his chin back, and stared at her skeptically.

"Yes, mine," she insisted, feeling oddly exposed under his critical glare. A reckless impulse made her add: "They were required."

"By whom?"

To refuse him an answer might only make him more determined to find out. The plain truth, she knew, was the only cure for a case of aggravated curiosity.

"By my mother. At least by proxy. They were required at Marchand."

When he looked puzzled, she explained, "L'Academie Marchand, a private school for English girls in the village of d'Arcy, just outside Paris. My mother sent me there when I was seven years old. And, except for an occasional holiday, that was where I lived until my nineteenth birthday."

Her face and posture softened a bit.

"Madame Marchand, our headmistress, was something of a bluestocking, I'm afraid. She had a passion for reading and discussion and insisted her pupils become literate in a number of areas. I loved to read and so became one of her prime protégés. It was she who accompanied me on my tour last year."

"Your tour?" He studied her with narrowing eyes. "What tour?"

"My grand tour… at least I believe you could call it that. My mother insisted I visit the great capitals: Paris, Rome, Vienna, Athens, and Geneva.

Madame Marchand, who acted as my guide and chaperon, managed to fit in a few lesser-known but far more interesting places, as well."

"Your
mother
insisted you travel?" He didn't bother to hide his surprise.

"She was quite adamant about it."

"But a 'grand tour' is a
male
rite," he said with a bit of manly indignation.

"Precisely." When he scowled at her, she smiled. "You see, my mother believes that a gentleman of substance desires an interesting woman, someone who can stimulate all of him, his mind as well as his passions. A man of importance requires a partner for his learning and accomplishment: a mistress who can converse intelligently on a wide range of subjects and is cultured and well traveled."

"So she made sure you studied and traveled and learned." He paused, seeing the broader scope of her mother's plan and recalling something she had said. "She was preparing you to be a mistress."

"The perfect mistress."

"But you don't want to be the perfect mistress," he concluded for her, eyeing her with open speculation. "What do you want to be, Gabrielle?"

"I believe I have already said." Her heart pounded as she raised her chin to a determined angle and took the volume of poems from his hands. "I intend to become a wife."

Given her previous statements and opinions, he wasn't exactly surprised by her announcement. But somehow "wife" didn't fit the picture of her that even now was being revised and enlarged in his mind. She was beautiful, bright, startlingly well educated, and had more than her share of self-possession… a far cry from the delectable little tart he had expected on their first encounter. And he could see from the set of her jaw and the glint in her eye that she was quite serious about her ambition. As she stood there, her delectable curves awash in ruffles, clutching a volume of Ovid's poems, he thought of the obstacles she faced and found himself voicing his question aloud.

"And just how do you intend to accomplish that, Gabrielle?"

"By distracting my mother and finding a husband." She assessed him for a moment, thinking, and then slid the book back into the empty slot on the shelf and turned back to him. "That is where you come in, your lordship."

He looked as if he'd been doused with a pail of icy water. "Me?"

"Absolutely." She saw the indignation rising in his eyes and quickly reassured him. "You asked what we would do when we are out and about.

Well, I intend to use the opportunity to search for a husband."

He straightened, his shoulders inflating with male outrage. "See here, Gabrielle, there are some depths of degradation to which even the most depraved of men will not sink. And hoodwinking fellow bachelors into marriage is one of them."

"No one is asking you to 'hoodwink' anyone. All you have to do is call for me each day and take me out and about until I find a husband. I have it all planned." She watched him grappling with the notion and sensed that, being a man, he needed a bit of 'logic' to help him accept what was plain as the nose on his face. "The way I see it, we're really both out to do the same thing: catch a man. In my case it's a husband, and in yours it's the prime minister. And I can't see any reason why we shouldn't help each another."

It did make sense, in a labyrinthine, feminine sort of way, he thought.

But the notion of being an accomplice to that age-old female ritual, the husband hunt, still made him feel uneasy… as if he were somehow betraying his sex. He took a deep breath and paced across the room, thinking, his brow furrowing.

As he neared the doors, suddenly there was a thump against the wooden panels, loud enough to cause both him and Gabrielle to start. It was followed by a faint, unidentifiable whisper of noise, then all was silent again.

She started for the door, but he held up a hand to halt her and motioned for quiet with a finger against his lips. He stole toward the door, staring at the brass handle and the large hole in the lock below it. Pressing an ear to the panels, he pointed sharply, indicating someone was just outside the door. A moment later, he crept stealthily back to the desk and sorted through the writing materials in the drawer.

Finding the bit of sealing wax she had used the day before, he held it up and whispered, "I believe I have just discovered how your mother intends to learn whether or not we are 'romantic' enough."

He squeezed and kneaded the wax in his hand to soften it, then went to the door and stuffed it unceremoniously into the keyhole. Gabrielle was appalled by his implication that her mother would stoop to something so vulgar as peeping through keyholes… and equally chagrined by her suspicion that he was right.

When the keyhole was plugged, he pulled her to the center of the room, keeping his voice low. "She may not be able to see us, but she can still hear us. Perhaps you'd better play something."

"The piano?"

"I assume you play," he said with a hint of sarcasm, "since there is a piano here."

"But I—" This was not the time for anything heroic. Her mother was not one to give up easily, she knew, and could very well be outside, listening. If so, the longer she delayed, the longer it might take for her mother to release them.

Furious at Rosalind's endless manipulations, she seated herself on the bench he held for her at the piano, and she studied the keys. He stood near her shoulder, watching, waiting to pronounce a verdict on her efforts.

"What shall I play? Something suitable for the occasion, obviously. Ah!"

She gave him a defiant little smile and put her fingers to the keys.

When the notes began to string together into a recognizable melody, the smugness in Pierce's expression disappeared. And as she warmed to her playing, his spine straightened and his jaw loosened in gentlemanly shock.

His gaze fastened on her nimble fingers, flying over the keyboard, punching the ivories with what could only have been called an excess of enthusiasm.

And the words to the music began to run maddeningly inside his head…

All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel…

Outside, her mother was wilting with horror, being supported by Gunther and fanned with Ariadne's handkerchief.

"Do you hear?" she whispered, frantically. " 'Pop Goes the Weasel'—she's playing 'Pop Goes the Weasel'! What's gotten into her?"

But Rosalind's distress was due to worsen. In a few moments, when the weasel was duly "popped," the music died—only to start up again with the slightly more melodious, though equally inappropriate music hall ditty, called "Twiggez-vous." "
Ohhh!
" Rosalind clamped an elegant hand to her forehead and sent the housemaid running for her salts. "The humiliation!